I should be napping but I can’t stop thinking about time travel and routine and tradition. We have these rituals — yearly camp outs, road trips, birthday parties — to mark the passing of time but also to pause the passing of time. Nothing can be fleeting if it will happen again soon. We journey back to when we were 13 on the same beach, possibly the same sand, that we now stand on at 33. We are reminded of the summer we first started talking to girls, the conversation with our aunt about the meaning of life that left us depressed for weeks, the obsessive thrill of getting a perfectly toasted marshmallow. The sharpness, the brightness, the fuel for countless conversations with those who knew us when we were young. Always brought back by being in the same place that it happened. Because place is age, physical location, and activity all rolled into one. With routine and tradition we recreate two out of the three. And that’s basically a functional time machine. Sure a limping 1988 Chrysler minivan with its sliding door rusted shut and a month old burrito under the driver’s seat caliber of time machine, but not everyone can get a DeLorean. Still, our junker gets us there. With enough effort, it gets us there.