I was doomed from the start.
My parents would plop mine and my sister’s butts in the backseat of the car, and we would take off on long road trips across the States. From my hometown of Carrollton, Georgia, we have driven as far north as Canada, as far south as Tampa, Florida, and as far west as Dallas, Texas (Although I personally was not on this trip. And yes Daddy, I am still bitter about it). There was one summer we drove to Washington DC, and instead of coming straight home, my dad said, “Let’s go north, and then turn back!” We drove through Maryland and Delaware, into New Jersey, turned west go to to Pennsylvania, and only then decided to head back south to Georgia.
We’ve done the entire west coast on two separate occasions. Our first west coast road trip was when Auburn played at Southern Cal in 2002. With my parents, little sister, Grand Dad, and Aunt, we journeyed from San Francisco to Los Angeles. The second time was the summer of 2013 when my family of four, my uncle’s family of four, and my grand parents all set out from Seattle, Washington headed for San Francisco, California.
Road trips were ingrained in my system very early on, and I thank my parents everyday for dragging my butt all over the continental USA.
I grew up in Georgia just outside bustling Atlanta. Atlanta is the perfect launching spot for travel in America. Home to Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport and major an interstate junction, Atlanta is the hub of the South.
I flew for the first time on my own at thirteen and haven’t stopped since. I remember inching along the security check point deathly afraid of being hand searched by one of those intimidating airport security people. It was thrilling to hop on the train to the varying terminals. And the sound of the engine as the airplane zoomed into the air?!
I was hooked.
Traveling is an infectious disease that cannot be cured. It can only be contained. To contain it, one must keep traveling.
I was doomed from the start to live a life on the road or in the air.