Through those miles, we cemented our marriage. It was on the road that we discovered a shared love of live theater, modern art, planetariums and wine-tasting. He dragged me to at least a dozen car museums and taught me how to play blackjack so we could hit the casinos together. I dragged him onto roller coasters and taught him there was more to dining than Red Lobster.

As I checked off states on my list, the surprises kept coming. The leathery skin of sunbathers who had spent too much time on Waikiki's beaches. The ragged men who ran through Manhattan traffic to open my taxi door for a tip. The chilling view from the Texas School Book Depository in Dallas, where JFK's assassin aimed the rifle that would change America forever. The little Nebraska town where I didn't see a single person of color or a single foreign car. A jazz funeral in New Orleans.

These snapshots captured details both trivial and telling about our country.

Over those 36 years of wandering America, I've seen a softening of our differences. Regional accents are less pronounced. I can order jambalaya or green chile stew or Maryland crab cakes in just about any city. Local stores and restaurants are being replaced by The Gap and Barnes & Noble and TGI Fridays; I can walk through many a mall and never see a clue to what state I'm in. Country music and NASCAR -- once largely regional interests -- have gone national. Most states have enough vineyards to string together a wine-tasting trail. If you miss a museum exhibit in Chicago, you can catch it later in Denver or Fort Lauderdale. And last time I was in Boston, I heard the foreign accents I'd missed the first time.

While some of the changes are encouraging -- wine-tasting in Cleveland! -- I'm saddened by others that have cost some towns their quirky charm.

THE FINAL THREE

And so when we planned our New England trip last fall to see our last three states -- New Hampshire, Vermont and Maine -- I worked a little harder to find sights that were geographically distinctive. I didn't see much point in going that far to visit L.L. Bean's flagship store in Freeport, Maine, when I knew it so well from its catalogs, or to eat at the original Ben and Jerry's in Waterbury, Vt., when I'm already way too familiar with their ice cream.

Instead, we sampled artisanal cheeses along the Vermont Cheese Trail (but skipped Cabot Creamery since we can buy their cheese at Publix). In New Hampshire, we drove the Mount Washington Auto Road's switchbacks on a sunny day and encountered stiff winds and an icy fog at the summit; coming back down, we passed a fleet of vintage cars preparing to race to the top. And finally, we drove into Maine and set about sampling its famous lobster and blueberries, bought a print of a seaside scene from a local artist and cruised on a whale-watching boat.

We were making our way through another lobster roll when my husband remarked, ''It's too bad these are so hard to find in Florida.'' And for just an instant, I agreed. But then I realized part of the pleasure of the lobster roll was in the crisp fall air, the lakeside view and -- as in my travels to all 50 states -- the joy of being on the road, in a place so different from home.

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