Richard Reiss

At 4 a.m. the alarm goes off. Forty minutes, later I’m in the car with my wife and our youngest son heading to Albany International Airport. Two hundred miles away in central New Jersey, my middle son was doing the same, although his destination is Newark Liberty International, while 1,200 miles south my eldest son was sleeping in Miami, where he lives. Soon, he would be awake and shortly thereafter join us for the first Reiss family vacation in more than 15 years.

I’d like to say I’m living the dream. It’s wonderful to spend time away with family. But families are complicated, which might explain why it’s been more than 15 years since this family has vacationed as one. That’s not to say we haven’t been together; we’re together often, just not on the road, not on vacation and not necessarily for fun.

Twice in recent years our nuclear family has traveled to Florida; both trips were for a funeral. Yet somehow we managed to cohabitate under one rented roof. Yes, we were sad — funerals can do that — but maybe we were happy, too. After all, who doesn’t love soft white sand between their toes, crystal clear water for swimming and all that beautiful Florida sunshine?

So back to Florida we go, and it’s not even a funeral. Was I excited? Maybe.

The original plan (with due respect and love to 60 percent of my family) was 48 hours with my oldest son, who, like me, is a bit more adventurous than the rest of the clan. The adventure trip included jet skis, snorkeling, air boats, speed boats and maybe some fishing, time permitting.

“I’d like to go to Miami for a weekend the eldest,” I said to my wife.

“I’d like to go, too,” she said.

“I was thinking just me and him,” I said.

“I don’ think so,” she said.

Soon word got out to the middle son that my wife and I were going to Florida. He said, “I haven’t been on a vacation in two years.

I said, “How is that my problem,” to which my wife said “He’s right. We should bring him with us.”

The ink had barely dried on the airplane tickets I had yet to purchase when my youngest boy said “It wouldn’t look right if I weren’t there.”

Look right to whom? Not me. I’m good with it. Nonetheless, we were set: five adults related by name and blood, ranging in ages from 29 to 67, were booked for a week in the Sunshine State.

The flight was memorable. Are you familiar with the word turbulence? Has your spouse ever clutched your arm hard enough to leave fingerprints on your skin? We landed. Not only did my wife leave fingerprints, but in a few places her fingernails broke the flesh. I found a small shop in the airport that sold bandages and spent $18 for something I could get for $3.99 in any pharmacy in America.

We met the middle son at the car rental terminal. The line was long, but there were six car rental workers at the counter, and I was optimistic we would get through quickly. I looked at my watch. It was nearly noon. Suddenly six workers were down to two. Ninety minutes later, we finally broke free of the line and were heading south on I-95, a highway that makes the New Jersey Turnpike seem like a quaint dirt road in the Berkshires. It was the middle of the day, yet every car in Florida seemed to be heading to Miami. Who said “getting there” is half the fun? A pattern was emerging.

The hotel was very nice. The rooms were large and shortly after we checked-in, my oldest son and his girlfriend joined us. Can we decide where to eat? No. Can we decide what we all want to do? No. Can we pretend we’re having a good time? Not there yet.

It was Friday evening, and family fun time would soon expire. We had 48 hours with the eldest before he had to return to work on Monday. One son was quiet. One son was a killjoy. One son accepted that we were good people and fun to be with as long as he could get the most expensive item on the diner menu each time we dined out.

Like any parent, I wanted us to get along, and we did, although it often seemed like a struggle for the boys. I sought gratitude, but instead I got snark. Eventually, we found common ground.

We discovered the Wiener Museum of Decorative Arts that houses an enormous collection of Chihuly glass and appeals to a shared family aesthetic. Next, we went to the Rubell Museum, which feels like Mass MOCA’s twin brother: filled with gigantic and provocative creations that often overwhelmed our senses. We dined at a terrific barbecue restaurant. It’s not my wife’s thing, but she was a trouper. And then we heard about Wynwood, an area of Miami where spectacular graffiti art graces the walls of most buildings. Go there. It’s amazing.

Art was unifying our family, but I still wanted to go to the Everglades. The children acquiesced, and on a cool sunny morning, we moved swiftly through shallow waters and tall grass on an airboat, looking for alligators in their natural habitat. We found three, and everyone seemed to enjoy the ride.

That evening, we brought in Chinese food for dinner. It’s funny how General Tso’s chicken, lo mein, spareribs and fried rice can be a unifying force. It took a week, but it seemed like we liked each other. The food was delicious and, dare I say, cheap: $200 less than dinner the night before.

The next day, we headed back home. There was no line to drop off our car, and the flight was turbulence-free. It was 72 degrees in Florida when we left and 19 degrees in the Berkshires when we pulled up to our house. Traveling can be a challenge, and traveling with family (my family) perhaps more so. Yet on that frozen Berkshires night, I felt nothing but warmth.