Between my parents first retirement, and second retirement, they bought a motorhome. It was huge, cranky, unreliable, and I only ever traveled with them in it once. They met up with a dozen friends in a parking lot, the group leader played this song at full volume, and we set off. My one and only trip to Key West. And the fuel pump failed on the way around Miami, shutting down the generator and the air conditioning. A couple of years later my parents were driving across a bridge in Tennessee in the motorhome when a tire blew. My father described it as follows, "your mother told me in words I didn't think she knew, that she hated traveling in the motorhome and she was done." They stopped to have the tire replaced at an RV dealer, and my mother sold it to the dealer and they drove the tow car home.