I started my journey bright and early.
Okay, for definition’s sake, “early” was 8:00 a.m.
In any case, after shoving a very disgruntled red minpin into her crate and tossing her lovingly on the front seat, fueling up my car with gasoline and my belly with hot tea, I was on the road. Noticing the frost on the grass as I sped past my neighbor’s lawns for the last time in an immeasurable while, I couldn’t help but feel excitement knowing that I would soon be in the South—in the warmth, in the heat, in the sun.
The drive to South Carolina (my destination for night one) is a mountainous trek that, thankfully, this time of year is beautiful. Painted horizons of reds, yellows, greens, oranges, and rusts led my way as I sped up, down, and around the mountains of West Virginia, Virginia, and North Carolina.
Road trips are fun, believe it or not. I keep myself entertained (being my favorite person on the planet has its advantages—for example, I don’t mind traveling with myself. Ha!). I like to be alone, to a point. I like to think, ponder, mull over. Driving for eight hours can lead to super epic thoughts (what will I name my children?) to super trivial thoughts (I need to paint my toenails once I get settled in Orlando—what color shall I choose?). My favorite part though is browsing the radio stations of whatever area I’m in. Who knew there could be so many banjo stations! One thing I love, though, is the closer I get to the equator, the more sunshiney and happy songs I hear. It seems every time I hit the South Carolina state line, I suddenly hear the Beach Boys.
And so, I reached South Carolina. I pull into the Lizard’s Thicket. I rush in to pee. Driving with Sweet Tea at your side? Bad idear. I pee. I leave the restroom. YAY DOREEN IS HERE with her lovely daughter Eleanor. Table, located. Another round of sweet tea, ordered. Time for friendsy catch-up time and lots of Eleanor lovin’s. She is two. She can say my name. She has met me once. I love this little girl and her mother so, so much.
After an exciting catch-up time over Fried Flounder and squash casserole, I must be gone. There is more driving to do tonight. A few hours later, I recruit the special forces (my friends who are home near their computers) to start sending me phone numbers of cheap hotels I’ll be passing. A trusty friend who never fails me sends me the number to a sweet little inn just outside of Savannah, Georgia. I’m grateful at this point because it’s very late and I’m getting what I’ll call a case of Road Trip Grump.
I reach the little inn, step inside, and pass the lady at the desk a copy of my drivers’ license. I sign the lines and pass the form back, noticing after I’ve paid my fee and obtained a room key that it reads, “Strict No-Pet Policy”. It’s cold, so she cannot sleep in my car. I also have a staunch view that my dog is significantly cleaner than most small children, yet they are not prevented from sleeping in hotels. She’s quieter, too.
I round the back corner of the building, park my car, and pull Tessie inside my sweater. She’s shaking again from fear of the trip and cold. I rush to my room and sneak her in.
The room is lovely; recently remodeled with sweet French Toile bedding in a sage hue, a granite sink, wrought iron curtain rods, and granite –lined shower. No matter, I won’t have time to enjoy them. I call my mommy to check in, set my alarm on my cell phone for 5:00 a.m., and then remove my jeans to crawl into bed in the day’s clothes. Tessie curls up next to me despite policy, and I am asleep almost instantly—what a long day.
Okay, for definition’s sake, “early” was 8:00 a.m.
In any case, after shoving a very disgruntled red minpin into her crate and tossing her lovingly on the front seat, fueling up my car with gasoline and my belly with hot tea, I was on the road. Noticing the frost on the grass as I sped past my neighbor’s lawns for the last time in an immeasurable while, I couldn’t help but feel excitement knowing that I would soon be in the South—in the warmth, in the heat, in the sun.
The drive to South Carolina (my destination for night one) is a mountainous trek that, thankfully, this time of year is beautiful. Painted horizons of reds, yellows, greens, oranges, and rusts led my way as I sped up, down, and around the mountains of West Virginia, Virginia, and North Carolina.
Road trips are fun, believe it or not. I keep myself entertained (being my favorite person on the planet has its advantages—for example, I don’t mind traveling with myself. Ha!). I like to be alone, to a point. I like to think, ponder, mull over. Driving for eight hours can lead to super epic thoughts (what will I name my children?) to super trivial thoughts (I need to paint my toenails once I get settled in Orlando—what color shall I choose?). My favorite part though is browsing the radio stations of whatever area I’m in. Who knew there could be so many banjo stations! One thing I love, though, is the closer I get to the equator, the more sunshiney and happy songs I hear. It seems every time I hit the South Carolina state line, I suddenly hear the Beach Boys.
And so, I reached South Carolina. I pull into the Lizard’s Thicket. I rush in to pee. Driving with Sweet Tea at your side? Bad idear. I pee. I leave the restroom. YAY DOREEN IS HERE with her lovely daughter Eleanor. Table, located. Another round of sweet tea, ordered. Time for friendsy catch-up time and lots of Eleanor lovin’s. She is two. She can say my name. She has met me once. I love this little girl and her mother so, so much.
After an exciting catch-up time over Fried Flounder and squash casserole, I must be gone. There is more driving to do tonight. A few hours later, I recruit the special forces (my friends who are home near their computers) to start sending me phone numbers of cheap hotels I’ll be passing. A trusty friend who never fails me sends me the number to a sweet little inn just outside of Savannah, Georgia. I’m grateful at this point because it’s very late and I’m getting what I’ll call a case of Road Trip Grump.
I reach the little inn, step inside, and pass the lady at the desk a copy of my drivers’ license. I sign the lines and pass the form back, noticing after I’ve paid my fee and obtained a room key that it reads, “Strict No-Pet Policy”. It’s cold, so she cannot sleep in my car. I also have a staunch view that my dog is significantly cleaner than most small children, yet they are not prevented from sleeping in hotels. She’s quieter, too.
I round the back corner of the building, park my car, and pull Tessie inside my sweater. She’s shaking again from fear of the trip and cold. I rush to my room and sneak her in.
The room is lovely; recently remodeled with sweet French Toile bedding in a sage hue, a granite sink, wrought iron curtain rods, and granite –lined shower. No matter, I won’t have time to enjoy them. I call my mommy to check in, set my alarm on my cell phone for 5:00 a.m., and then remove my jeans to crawl into bed in the day’s clothes. Tessie curls up next to me despite policy, and I am asleep almost instantly—what a long day.
