I simply didn’t know what I didn’t know. How could I?
Well, I was barely 16 — so there’s that. I lived in a tiny island town in the Deep South. I was also “in love” and utterly self-absorbed. Did I mention I was 16?
So, when my English teacher, Mrs. Webb, announced that she would be taking a group of students to Europe that summer — would I like to go? — I declined. How would I live without my boyfriend for a whole two weeks?
But the following year, Louis and I had broken up, and the summer break loomed lonely before me. Sure, why not? I’ve got nothing better to do.
Ha! Of course, now I cringe when I think about my cavalier attitude toward travel, but like I said — I didn’t know what I didn’t know.
But that trip changed everything — perhaps the entire trajectory of my life. Travel became a passion — if not an obsession — and like most obsessions, the more I had of it, the more I wanted.
I found myself suddenly restless and frantic to get out of Dodge. I took the fast track through high school and college. At 18, I decided to move to Costa Rica with my friend, Karen. And at 19, I came home and applied for a job with the most romanticized company on the planet at the time — Pan American World Airways.
At 20, I was seated on the jumpseat of a 747 winging my way to Warsaw, or Nairobi, or Rome. For nearly 20 years, travel was my life — not just when I was working, but on my time off. The world was my oyster. I could fly anywhere on the planet for free. And I did.
I was a fearless traveler. I sometimes ventured out alone — to the Great Barrier Reef in Australia or to the beaches in Hawaii. I once flew all the way to Korea one weekend to go shopping on the famed Itaewon Street in Seoul.
But my fondest memories of that time involve exploring the world with others: my flying partners and the friends and family I would vacation with. Immediate family members flew free as well. Pan Am actually sold t-shirts that read, “Marry me, Fly Free.” I still have mine. (Incidentally, I met my husband 35 years ago on a flight to Sydney.)
All that travel came to a screeching halt in the 1990s. Once again, I blame a boy.
Or two. Our first son, Myles, was born in ’93 (Taylor in ’95). Both Ted and I had careers that required extensive international travel. One of us needed to stay home, and since I was the only one of the two of us who was any good at lactating, it kinda seemed like a no-brainer.
I cried as I tendered my resignation. My supervisor did too.
But of course, a whole new world opened up to me as a new mommy, a different exciting (exhausting) adventure. Eventually, we began to take family vacations closer to home, mostly Caribbean cruises and West Coast family reunions.
It wasn’t until the boys finished college that we resumed big international jaunts. As graduation gifts, we let each of them choose a dream destination. Myles chose Australia and New Zealand; Taylor chose England and Scandinavia.
And the travel bug bit us again. We’ve taken some amazing trips this decade — London, Dubai, the British Virgin Islands. We even did a nine-thousand-mile, six-week road trip across the country. So. Much. Fun.
And now? What thrilling trips do we have planned today?
Chipley. We’re going to Chipley, Florida. A day trip. To visit a sinkhole. And a waterfall, that will or will not actually be falling, depending on the precipitation this month. With airfares and hotel costs at an all-time high, we’re getting creative with our travel plans.
Maybe next month we’ll dare to venture even further from home and visit the world’s biggest (only?) Boll Weevil Monument in Enterprise, Alabama.
Why not? I’ve got nothing better to do.
