Start

I took my first flight my freshman year at the College of Charleston when the smartest boy I know arranged for me to visit Texas A&M University. I ended up with a football injury (yes, you read that correctly) and made the trip on crutches which may have made this initial flight easier in that I was carted to gates and on/off the plane and someone else made all the plans. It was marvelous and a very big deal since no one in my immediate family had ever flown anywhere at anytime. My parents never saw any need to leave the small town in which they went to high school, got married, had kids, and grew roots so firmly deep as to shackle any possibility of movement. We visited family in North Carolina and Georgia but only for very short weekends. According to them, everything necessary was available right where they were.

I didn't have the chance to fly again for a very long time as I settled into adulting: job, marriage, children. The travel bug had yet to find me. It finally did after a conversation at a kitchen table in Atlanta led to a weekend trip to New York City. After that, I had to go. Somewhere. Anywhere. Everywhere.