The Garden State wasn’t all bad, but I faintly recall my son not being the most cooperative photographer.

[The very special miniseries continues! See Part One for the official intro and context.]

After the brief stopover in Harrisburg, the next two hours and the next four interstates were less invigorating than I would’ve liked. The Pennsylvania Turnpike must have a monopoly on the state’s best scenery. Mostly we passed the time scanning the local radio channels and learning that the Pennsylvania airwaves are made of top-40. Fifteen channels seemed to be playing the same six songs nonstop, a statewide revival in honor of Katy Perry and Lady Ga-Ga, America’s new First Ladies or whatever.

Next stop was across the state line in New Jersey, in a verdant, elegantly sculpted community called Whippany. Judging by the slanderous slings and arrows that New Jersey has taken over the decades, we expected something like an all-white Boyz n the Hood or a low-budget adaptation of Dante’s Inferno. On the contrary, Whippany was glorious, well-paved suburbia. I love seeing stereotypes busted.

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