There is a thing we did with my Grampa when I was very young. We didn't do it a lot but we did it often enough that those trips became some of my fondest memories. I was very young so the memory is sort of one big happy memory of the experience rather than a trip by trip down memory lane. We continued the tradition with my Dad, then my Mom, then me with my kids and, I hope, them with theirs. We did it in the city, we did it in the country and we giggled the whole time, as I recall. We did it just the other day and, indeed, we giggled.
I don't remember much about him really. He lived in the city, a train ride away, at 55th and Lex, eight blocks from Grand Central Station. He was a buyer for a big grocery store chain and, as part of his job, they leased and provided him with a brand-new Cadillac every year. He worked there over fifty years if I'm guessing right by the watch they gave him. My Mom ended up with the last Cadillac after he died. I don't know that my Gramma drove at all. Grampa Louie, he was very cool. For some odd reason, no one in my family knows why, he always had a custom license plate and it was always 1Y26. As far as we know, it was on every single one since 1957, a year after I was born. We gave up years ago trying to figure out what it meant.
It is one of those cars, the last big silver Cadillac with the pointy tail lights and the license plate that is in my memories. My Mom drove it after he died. It was several cars probably but that is the one I remember. Grampa at the wheel in a suit and tie, Gramma in her anniversary mink coat, me in the middle, my sister, my Mom and my little brother in the back. All of us dressed for our earlier ride on the train to the city. In those days you dressed up for a trip to the city on the train. It would be after dinner, the light fading in and out in the gaps between the buildings, horns honking and mist rising through the manhole covers. You could feel the subway pass by underfoot while waiting with the doorman in his spiffy brass button uniform for the car to come up from the garage. Then we'd be off driving with the windows open, even in the winter, all bundled up. Then someone would say, "Lets get lost Grampa" and, if we were lucky, he would say "OK, which way should I go?" Someone else would shout "Left!" and for a while we were in charge of the big silver Cadillac, giving Grampa weird directions and trying to get so lost that he would have to ask directions to get home. (It's an island, Manhattan island.)
We recently moved and are spending half our time in LA for a bit while we fix up the new place. To save ourselves from going stir crazy during the pandemic, every now and then we go get lost somewhere in LA. To be fair Wakitu is totally like a blue-eyed, blonde-haired valley girl fursureman and knows the city pretty well. She's worked/lived here for nearly 50 years.
To be fair to me, I have managed to make her say "Where the hell am I" more than once. For the most part, I drive and we wing it starting with a direction or a destination to "take the long way to." 
Go LEFT! go up the hill, down thataway, we have found everything from hidden mid-city farms, to sleepy little tree-lined neighborhoods with immaculate landscaping, city overlooks, and the cutest little houses with very LA, very eclectic art in the yards. We drive through ancient LA architecture, out past the city, alleys in the rear-view mirror. Up lonely hillsides, past lamp posts and longhorns, we find dusty dirt roads with fabulous views. It is, honestly, one of our favorite things to do.
Date night is often a drive, a sunset and takeout from a discovered local joint. We tourist entire towns from the car, hitting the hot spots, taking pics and going around the block to see it again. We take the scenic route whenever our task is not time-sensitive. Curbside pickups can turn into an adventure on the way home.
Do yourself a favor: go get lost for Grampa Louie!
