Fly away with me Try to keep up, it's going to be a bumpy ride.

In unison, we struck the arm rests of the coffee-coloured corduroy couch to the beat of the opening credits, disturbing the dog hair, not taking our eyes off the screen. It was a grey winter day in 1997, and we were on hour four of a Friends marathon.

“That’s enough,” my uncle said. “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“You girls need adventure. I’ll give you 20 minutes to get ready.”

“Get ready? Where are we going? Should we change? Should we bring money?”

My uncle just raised his eyebrows: “It’s an adventure. You won’t know what you need until you get there. You could stand to learn a little from spontaneity. Nineteen minutes left.”

My cousin and I ran up to her room – the prospect of adventure was the most exciting thing to happen to us in our entire 10 years of life.

She lent me a party dress and a nice coat, I gave her a pair of my stick-on earrings and we snuck into her older sister’s bedroom for a little blush and mascara – things we would need in case our best case scenario played out: a private Spice Girls concert in our honour.

We ran out to the hallway and poked our heads over the banister: “Do we need our passports?”

“Wouldn’t hurt!”

With that, we shoved everything from shorts and sweaters to a Polaroid camera and our diaries into a bag and shot down the stairs.

“Two minutes left. Did you forget anything? One bag is enough for the two of you? Alright, I guess we can get more stuff once we’re there. Essentials are in the car - let's go!”

Arms full, we ran outside and scrambled over the snowbank into the beaver-paneled station wagon parked in the street.

“Ready?”

“Yes!”

“Buckle up!” He adjusted his mirrors before playing with the radio until he found music we’d all agree on. “And we’re off!”

Third Eye Blind's "Semi-Charmed Life" pumped out of the speakers as my uncle took a sharp right turn into the driveway and turned off the engine.

“Plows are coming tonight,” he cackled, “had to get the car out of the street.” He unbuckled his seat belt and walked into the house, his laughter punctuated by thick white clouds of cold air. We remained in the back seat of the Buick, wide-eyed and bewildered, wondering just how we got there.