We arrived at Chicago’s famous Bean after beginning our trip with a very different kind of bean.
The night before we left Virginia, I stood in the kitchen staring into the refrigerator, determined not to waste what we already had. We were heading out early the next morning for a thirteen-hour drive to Chicago with four small children, and it felt both ambitious and entirely normal for that phase of life.
We had already eaten most of the groceries that wouldn’t survive a week away.
So we did what practical families do.
We ate beans and weenies.
At the time, it felt efficient. Resourceful, even. We cleaned out the fridge, packed the cooler, loaded the minivan, and went to bed early, proud of our sensible pre-trip planning.
We woke before sunrise and drove straight through — thirteen hours north with snacks, bribes, bathroom breaks, and the type of chaos that defines road trips with young kids. There were questions about how much longer, arguments over seat space, and — given what we’d had for dinner — an aromatic situation that had my husband cycling the windows down with the regularity of a metronome while the kids screamed about the wind. Each blast of wind reminded me of spraying water at a cat.
When we finally reached Chicago and stood in front of Cloud Gate — the polished, reflective sculpture most people simply call “The Bean” — I remember laughing to myself.
Less than twenty-four hours earlier, we had been dealing with a very different kind of bean entirely.
And yet, that felt exactly right.
When our children were small, travel looked like this: driveable destinations, packed lunches, careful budgeting, and using what we had. We didn’t feel rushed to fly them across oceans. We wanted trips they could remember and enjoy at the stage they were in — and that we could afford without stress.
So we drove.
The Chicago trip happened to begin with a conference — my husband’s food, lodging, and miles were covered, which meant the kids and I had a built-in base of operations and a very specific mission. Every morning we descended on the Embassy Suites free breakfast like it was our full-time job. Every evening during the included happy hour we made entirely respectable meals out of chips and salsa, cheese and crackers, and — for me — free wine, while my husband went off to his business dinners. We were thriving.
He could have flown first class and arrived well-rested and alone. Instead he piled into the minivan with the rest of us, aromatic consequences of the previous night’s dinner and all, because this was the version of the trip he wanted. That was never lost on me.
We explored cities within reach. We saved airline miles. We waited.
Later, when they were old enough to remember and appreciate it, we widened the map. Europe. The Middle East. Islands and ancient ruins and places that made history feel alive.
And somewhere along the way, a family tradition was born: when each child graduates from high school, they choose one place in the world they want to see. That trip becomes their gift — not a car or a thing, but an experience chosen by them.
But it all started in a minivan.
It started with practical dinners and long drives and the willingness to embrace the season we were in.
We saved on logistics so we could splurge on meaning.
We chose experiences over accumulation.
And sometimes, the most beautiful destinations begin with beans and weenies in a Virginia kitchen.
