After my family, a few friends, and my spirituality, Travel is easily the thing that I love the most in the world. I fully intend to spend all my years in “retirement” (I put that in quotes because I hope I never stop working, honestly. Not in that crazy, Wall Street workaholic sense, but in the wanting-to-produce-useful/beautiful-things-out-of-passion-and-general-life force)

I haven’t been to that many places, in the grand scheme of things. I’ve only been to just a few countries (which I desperately, desperately long to change… starting in the Mediterranean area) but seriously almost all of the U.S. states, which isn’t too shabby, actually. In fact, as much as I constantly, consciously loathe the “BIGGER IS BETTER AND WE’RE THE BEST!!!!” mentality of American commercialism and the staunch fear-based [arrogant, egocentric, aggressively domineering, theocratic] conservatism in our politics, when I’m out playing in the United States, I’m reminded of how wonderful a place this really is. I’ll spare you the melodramatic sentiment, but with the beauty and incredible variety of our country, it’s hard not to wonder if we really are the best country in the world, at least geographically. The two major mountain ranges in their vast differences (I much prefer the humble, ancient comfort of the Appalachians, although the skiing in the Rockies is way way better), the beautiful variety of our coastlines (I’m partial to Hawaii, but the Outer Banks are pretty divine, too, if not a little rocky. I love the lighthouses, though, even though I didn’t so much when my mom dragged us to every. single. one in a road trip during the summer of 1994) and their resulting aquatic-cities… it’s all great. But the real joy is in the land features that are completely unique to our country. Yellowstone is testament enough to that, of course, with the hot springs and sulfur pools (which are hard to see in person because of all the steam… faaaacial!) but the Everglades (best seen by fanboat, btw), Arches National Park (hooray dry heat!) and underwater cities like New Orleans are also pretty insane, not to mention the un-freaking-believable residential testaments to human spirit like Mesa Verde. And even though they’re no Ayers Rock, Stone Mountain and Devil’s Tower are pretty amazing in themselves. :::Sigh::: I still dream of making it to Alaska and the New England coast and being part of the annual Leafer[/Ben & Jerry's] migration in Vermont and experiencing the mythical glory of Burning Man, but I’m still pretty proud of the extensive American experience I’ve had so far. (And I am a GIANT nerd about history and grassroots, folksy heritage in places. I WILL drag my travel companions to historic sites, markets, and weird-ass museums/attractions.) The landscape here is the only thing I’ve always felt real, passionate patriotism for. It is only for the right to play on our glorious playgrounds that I would consider going to war if needed.

For the record, if I had a choice as to where to live in the U.S. the answer is always Portland, OR. Always. Sure, I’d love to camp out in Berkeley, or have a little house in Asheville or Athens or even Austin, and I’ve kind of always wondered what it’d be like to spend a year living in a massive city like Chicago or New York (Tribeca, of course) but if I could pack my bags and leave today, I’d be in Portland. This is among those dreams Greg and I are planning on working toward; maybe one day we’ll own a little B&B in a tiny town around Portland and can spend our spare time biking and hiking and skiing and writing and doing photography and visiting drag shows, concerts, art shows and living crazy, artsy, liberal lives.

Anyway, I live for road trips. I spent my two years as a dorm-living undergrad hopping in my Jeep and driving to insane destinations. A friend of mine and I drove up for a freezing weekend visiting a friend in Chicago, another friend and I went to stay with her granddad on Islamorada, FL (it’s one of the Florida Keys, for you international readers) and one of my all-time best weekends involved me and two awesome buddies spontaneously driving to Memphis for the express purpose of visiting Graceland. (We’re not Elvis fans; we were just bored on a Friday night and thought it’d be hilarious. 10 hours later, it was just absurd.) We stayed in the Heartbreak Hotel, ate fried peanut-butter-and-banana sandwiches, and wandered around the King’s house in an awed stupor. It was amazing. Aside from the completely insanely-long sporadic trips, I would routinely drive 5 hours to Asheville to visit my bestie about once every 6 weeks until the Bear came along and really, a weekend getaway via road was just one of those things I did. Visiting friends 4+ hours away, staying at someone’s Outer Banks beach house, all just part of a typical weekend. I kind of did the same rambling-around thing while I was in Australia, although with the INSANELY low plane fares of JetStar, I was able to trot around the continent with must greater ease and expedience.

But the best trips are the ones where you’re not really sure what your itinerary is, how you got to wherever it is you are and if you’re going to make it home in any sort of realistic time frame. I’ve mentioned my accidental weekend in San Francisco when Aussie Immigration botched my visa on my way to Melbourne for a visit, which was particularly rad (except I never made it back to Aus. :: sigh ::) but there have been handfuls of adventures in the same vein that I’ve been lucky enough to experience. Screwed-up flights, broken-down cars, backseat camping, staying with complete strangers who were kind enough to take us in for the night… Man, I miss being on the road.

So anyway, this weekend I finally get to return to beautiful Chicagoland. I’m excited about this because I haven’t been in a couple years and I haven’t had the chance to really enjoy my time there in about 7 years. Additionally, I haven’t been to the city in the summer time since 1998 and, even then, I was only there for about 24 hours as it was just a stop on a continent-wide bus tour I took with a group of fellow high-schoolers. So seeing Chicago in the summertime will be a fantastic treat. And yeah, I’m one of those people who much prefers the chilled Chicago vibe to the uptight, pretentious, image-centric attitude of New York. And I still harbor dreams of running away with Second City.

Due to the incredible restlessness that having a small child for the last 18 months has instilled in me, I’m finally breaking out and getting back on the road to do a little [relatively large, compared to what I've seen in the last year] travel in the next month. It won’t be anything ambitious or groundbreaking but I’m still excited to catch a couple ferries to Hatteras with Chloe to visit an old college roomie at her beach house and even to drive back up to the northern NC Piedmont to see my Gran and a few other college buddies in the quiet outer-Triad. Again, it’s nothing massive like I used to love, but after only being able to drive to Charleston, Ocean Isle and Atlanta in the last year and a half (not including the wedding trip to Kauai last September, of course. That’d be a treat no matter how long I’ve been cooped up,) any sort of vehicular freedom is going to feel amazing. I’m not saying dragging Chloe around by myself is going to be a breeze, but I think it’s worth it to just get out for a change. And then my family is taking our annual week-long break to Fripp Island in the beginning of August, which I could not be more excited about if I tried.

So, even though it’s nothing huge, I get to start getting out again. It’s weird; I always thought that in married, parenting life I’d miss a nightlife or the freedom to do spontaneous things every day or anything in that vein. As I’m recognizing my unbelievable excitement in making travel plans, I’m realizing that indulging my wanderlust is easily the one thing I’ve missed more than anything.