From JuJu with Love

Long before I collected passport stamps or crossed oceans, my love of travel began on four wheels—inside a motorhome my family affectionately called the Gantseh Megilleh.

A Yiddish phrase meaning the whole story or the entire saga, the name fit perfectly. That motorhome wasn’t just transportation—it was the story. Every mile came with its own drama, laughter, and unforgettable moments.

The Gantseh Megilleh was practically a small apartment on wheels. There was a couch that folded down into a double bed, and a kitchen table that could be removed so the bench seating could magically transform into a single bed. Above the driver’s and passenger’s seats was a loft—another double bed that always felt like the best seat in the house. We had a real kitchen, a bathroom, and just enough space to make long road trips feel cozy rather than cramped.

My family was never much of a camping family, and the Gantseh Megilleh reflected that. It wasn’t about roughing it—it was about getting from one place to another with a sense of adventure, then pulling into a hotel at the end of the day. It was less campfire cooking and more continental breakfast. But the journey itself? That was everything.

One summer, we pointed the Gantseh Megilleh west and drove all the way to Colorado. That trip was the rare exception—we actually camped. Real camping. In Colorado. Sleeping in the motorhome, surrounded by mountains, feeling like pioneers… albeit pioneers with plumbing, electricity, and plenty of snacks.

When the trip ended, my parents decided they had reached their lifetime camping quota. One of my dad’s clients flew out to Colorado and drove the Gantseh Megilleh back home for us, and we flew home instead. Looking back, that detail alone perfectly captures my family’s travel philosophy: adventurous, but with clear boundaries—and very creative solutions.

The Gantseh Megilleh wasn’t just for road trips. Sometimes it played a supporting role closer to home. When our cottage in Harbor Springs, Michigan was full, the motorhome would be parked in the driveway, turning into an overflow guest room. Cousins, friends, and family members would sleep in the camper outside—proof that it was as much a gathering place as it was a vehicle.

Another memorable journey took us to Washington, D.C.—educational, patriotic, and full of sightseeing.

We stayed at Loew’s L’Enfant Plaza Hotel, and at some point my dad and I went to take the camper out to park it. This felt reasonable at the time. Confident, even. What we didn’t realize was that once you commit to a lane in an RV in Washington, D.C., you are fully committed.

Somewhere between the hotel and what we thought was the parking garage, we found ourselves on a bridge heading away from the city. There was no turning around. No pulling over. Just the slow, dawning realization that we were no longer in Washington, D.C. at all.

By the time we could exit, we were in Virginia.

Years later, after college, I lived in northern Virginia outside of DC for ten years. And every time I passed by that hotel, I laughed. Not because I was lost anymore—but because my first trip to Virginia involved accidentally crossing state lines in an RV with my father, trying to park for the night

After a wonderful trip to our nations capitol, the drive home took a turn into the truly unbelievable.

Somewhere near Sandusky, Ohio, we stopped at a campground that still feels more like a story than real life. For reasons I still don’t fully understand, the owner of the campground shot at us as we were leaving. Yes—Shot. At. Us.

Thankfully, no one was hurt, and the Gantseh Megilleh lived to drive another day. But it was one of those moments that permanently imprints itself on your memory—equal parts terrifying and surreal. Even now, it feels almost impossible when I say it out loud.

Despite—or maybe because of—stories like these, those motorhome trips left a lasting impression on me. They taught me that travel doesn’t have to be perfect to be meaningful. Sometimes it’s messy. Sometimes it’s uncomfortable. Sometimes it’s downright bizarre. But it always comes with stories worth telling.

The Gantseh Megilleh was never about luxury or flawless itineraries. It was about motion. About curiosity. About seeing what was around the next bend in the road—even if that bend led to a strange campground or an unexpected flight home.

Looking back, I realize those early road trips planted the seeds for the traveler I became. Whether by motorhome, plane, ship, or camel, I’ve always been chasing that same feeling: the joy of going somewhere new, even when it doesn’t go exactly as planned.

Because if there’s one thing the Gantseh Megilleh taught me, it’s this—

the best travel stories usually start with, “You’re not going to believe this…”

When I shared the draft of this blog post with my dad, he reminded me that the camper had a whole second life closer to home. It wasn’t just for road trips and campgrounds—it was also pressed into service as a tailgating headquarters at Lions football games, and occasionally as a very unconventional limo. Somehow, it became the vehicle of choice for ferrying six or eight people to dinner or out to a concert at Pine Knob. Practical? Not exactly. Memorable? Absolutely. It was less a mode of transportation and more a moving gathering place—where the fun started long before we arrived.

From Juju with love 💙✈️