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Twelve steps to the near perfect day:

Wake up at an RV campground—in this case, the lovely Quechee/Pine Valley KOA in the breathtaking Upper Valley of Central Vermont, where mountains and meadows and lakes and rivers and forests battle for bragging rights, a place so picturesque that you think you’ve somehow been swallowed into a postcard while you slumbered.

Brew a cup of coffee. Inhale the peaceful surroundings.

Set off a couple of miles down the road toward Quechee (rhymes with “peachy”) Gorge Village, the kind of uber-charming hiccup where you find candle shops and antique malls and a toy and train museum—and where the establishments have names like the Vermont Spot Country Store and a brand new one called Maple Harvest Specialties, which sells everything from maple kettlecorn to maple cotton candy to maple pumpkin relish.

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I always insist that Wrigley Field is the ultimate sports cathedral. I gush about it. I ramble on about it. I even wrote a book about, a gorgeously-illustrated alphabet picture book called W is for Wrigley.

Because I’ve been lucky enough to have visited Yankee Stadium and Madison Square Garden and the Rose Bowl and Lambeau Field and Indianapolis Motor Speedway and the Pebble Beach Golf Links and even the Field of Dreams—all of them pantheon-worthy places—I like to think I can tout the wonders of Wrigley without hesitation.

Except until now I had never been to Fenway Park.

I know, I know. One could argue that I’ve been doing the equivalent of shouting to the world that Robert DeNiro is our finest actor—and then admitting that I haven’t actually seen an Al Pacino film. So a trip to Fenway Park was at the top of my traveling to-do list (along with a visit to Glacier National Park).

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If the weather wasn’t cooperating in Minneapolis, it more than made up for itself as we traveled north. Our destination was to stop north of Brainerd, MN for a few days to meet up with some wonderful friends we met while RVing in Georgia a few years ago.

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In the early 20th century, some of the nation’s wealthiest families summered in Newport, Rhode Island. They built mansions and called them cottages. The Astors. The Vanderbilts. Here, in the early 21st century, you can add the Herzogs to the list, only Amy and I did it in a house on wheels.

A note of caution: When visiting Newport RV-style, you want to plan ahead. Find a way to park outside the city center and make your way in via other transportation. The roads are narrow. The crowds are thick. The parking is tough. But the experience is unforgettable.

Our day in Newport consisted of a long lunch, a bit of tennis, and a stroll.

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Hello summer! School’s out, the sun is shining, and the open road beckons us. The best part about summer road trips is the glorious freedom that comes with them. No beach is too far, no river is too long, no mountain is too high. Just get behind the wheel of the RV and go!


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