California, here I come! Pt. 1 - Adventures in the Midwest

Yes, this picture of the sunset was taken while driving. I was on a deadline.

I sometimes long for an office somewhere with a calendar on the wall, a rotating cast of coffee mugs and, you know, co-worker friends. There is one massive advantage to working from home, though, and that's the fact that "home" can be anywhere. I've illustrated this point to myself pretty clearly this summer by embarking on my first adventure west of the Mississippi River. After begging to cover Comic-Con in San Diego, California, and eventually having my assignment confirmed I made a major decision: Why fly when I could drive?
In retrospect, a sane person and more experienced road-tripper would have allotted a little more time to get from Ohio to California. I, however, decided I could absolutely do the 34 hour drive in two days. And I almost did, too.

Except I got a little caught up in Colorado. It's hard to not.

Before reaching Colorado, I drove though a snippet of Indiana and Illinois (nothing new there). Then it was on through Iowa... home of Hawkeyes and best friends. Iowa is quite pretty. No matter how you picture it, you're probably spot on. If you've ever lived in or drove through the Midwest, you already know what Iowa looks like. It's nothing spectacular... but it was road I'd never traveled surrounded by the green of farms.

The previously mentioned best friend once told me how grain silos have a tendency to explode. I just barely passed Physics a million and a half years ago, but it has something to do with the silos being poorly ventilated. The dust particles in the air inside the silo then latch onto any sort of ignition and end up making one big bang. Apparently this happened quite a bit in Iowa when my friend was growing up so I spent nearly all of my time in Iowa looking into the distance hoping to catch a 'sploding silo. No such luck.

I still thoroughly enjoyed the drive, though, and felt only slight regret when I crossed the border from Iowa into Nebraska... another state I'd never visited.

Right on the border of Iowa and Nebraska, is Council Bluffs and it's there that I discovered the most interesting display of agricultural landscaping I'd ever seen. Large ridges were cut from the earth, creating fields that looked like wide, curving and elongated staircases. In my infinite ignorance, I also decided they must be why the area was called Council Bluffs. These were "the council bluffs." To my defense, I had an absolutely awful geography teacher in seventh grade. I imagine that when she was giving us the definition of a bluff, I was most likely writing a note to my best friend April giving a very detailed recounting of a daydream I had about our most favorite band in the world: Hanson.  That's the only excuse I have for thinking that bluffs were nothing more than recurring two foot drops in the earth's surface.

I've looked it up, though. It's actually a system of "terraced farming." You'll see it a lot in the rice fields in Asia. The terraces allow for better irrigation. The water runoff moves slower. That not only helps the fields to use as much of the water as possible and no doubt pull more nutrients from it, but it also helps to counteract erosion caused by said runoff. This is according to the Department of Agriculture, of course. So it must be true.

Technically, this picture was taken in Colorado. Close enough.

I stopped for the night at rest stop just west of Fort Kearney. It was the kind of purposefully poor lit place that welcomed the likes of, well, me. It hosted multiple cars and trucks full of weary travelers. I pulled my tiny, bright yellow Fiat into a space two down from a comfortably resting Jeep, crawled over into the passenger's seat and dreamed of sleeping soundly in a hotel bed in California.

During my hours at the rest stop, my much-needed sleep was interrupted numerous times.

First, I accidentally kicked my horn and no doubt woke-up all of my fellow travelers.

Later, a humongous diesel pick-up pulled into a spot directly beside me and almost took out my car. There was so much wrong with that occurrence, I had to sit there or a while and seethe. First, there were a million other parking spaces that weren't directly beside me... or anyone else. Second, have you ever seen a Fiat in the wild? They're miniscule. You could fit two in one parking space. If you're pulling into an adjacent spot and can't manage to avoid almost collecting a yellow streak down the side of your manhood-defender, you shouldn't have a license... much less insist on driving something so massive.  The driver, his bimbo and their equally huge dog weren't staying the night but just stopping for pit stop. After 10 minutes of fuming to myself and another five of trying to calm down and go back to sleep, I had to sit up, again, and watch(/glare) as they backed out and, again, almost ran over my car.

Then, a semi pulled in on the other side of the median. I watched for 10 minutes as he rocked between forward and reverse until he fit his 18-wheeler between two other rumbling, slumbering trucks. Despite all the minutes wasted while people-watching though my sleep-crusted eyelids, I woke up at 6 a.m. ready for  brand new day. And another new state.

The Colorado border was just a little ways up the road and I was on a mission.

(To be continued...)

Highway Through Hell

Just now I was listening to Eminem (don't judge me!) and it reminded me of my first (and hopefully only) time in Detroit.

It was the very end of October, 2010, and my best friend and I were on our way to see one of our favorite bands. They're called Mt. Desolation and they're from England. They had just ended their time in the western U.S. where they opened for our favorite band, Mumford & Sons. They weren't, however, going to be opening for them in the mid-west. So, as a last minute addendum to our already epic road-trip to see (you guessed it) Mumford & Sons, we added a solo Mt. D date at the beginning of our journey. Detroit, here we come!

Twelve miles into my trip, before I even picked up my friend, Rachel, I had a run-in with the law. I was pulled over just north of Lebanon for speeding in a construction zone. You know, everywhere else in the universe, you're only required to slow down if lights are flashing and workers are present. It was 5:30. No orange vests were in sight. While fines weren't, in fact, doubled...they were still doled out harshly (and, in my opinion, unfairly). I sulked, tucked that yellow piece of paper into my glove compartment box, quickly posted to a picture of my odometer at 12 miles (only a few minutes earlier, it seemed, I'd posted one at zero miles)and with a message about getting a ticket, and then I was back on the road. Detroit, here we come! ...again!

I picked up Rachel, opened my birthday present in a truck stop parking lot (a red buffalo plaid fleece blanket and a "Peace, Love & Banjos" bumper sticker!) and then barreled back down the highway. That was until we crossed over into Michigan. Almost immediately across the state line, we came to a dead stop. There was absolutely nothing around us but big rigs and black night. Ten minutes. Nothing was on the highway advisory station. Twenty minutes. We were going to be a little later. Thirty minutes later...we finally moved. We never saw anything to explain why we were stopped for so long. I'm still a little bitter about that. But we sighed happily at just the feeling of the road passing under beneath us. Detroit, here we come! ...eventually.

We hit Detroit with practically no warning at all. As a matter of fact, I wasn't even entirely sure we were in Detroit until I saw the bright green 8 Mile sign quickly approaching. I forced Rachel to snap pictures for me with my cell phone and both our cameras. It was 8 Mile! Home of Eminem! I have no idea just how far off I-75 you have to drive in order to get to the trailer park where the rapper grew up...it could be miles and miles. It didn't matter, though. It was the sign! It was a sight to see! It was a photographic moment! Detroit! We've arrived!

A few miles past downtown, we got off the highway and we were immediately lost. My family's motto has always been, "We're not lost. We're having an adventure." We can make the worst wrong turn into an epic journey and the smallest no-named town into a barrel of laughs. In Detroit, however, I truly felt lost. The week before we left, a friend had joked to me that all of the street signs in Detroit had been stolen. I laughed. I was ignorant. The massive highway signs are still there(-ish), obviously. However, once I exited the highway I was greeted by one unmarked intersection after another. I had no idea where I was at, much less how far I had until I got to where I was going, or even how I was supposed to know when I go to my destination! Detroit! Where the hell are we?!

Our saving grace came from a fellow fan girl. Rach knew here from her days of swooning over The Killers. She was from Michigan and we were going to meet her at the Mt. D gig. She didn't live in the area where the concert was, so it still took us a few "Right-right or right-lefts?" and illegal U-turns, but we eventually made it to the concert...halfway through the set. The second half was worth all the extra gas, used cell phone minutes and exasperated groans, though. Detroit! It wasn't a complete waste of our time!

After the show we were headed toward Milwaukee for the next stop on our "epic adventure"-Milwaukee. Of course, we had to get out of Detroit, first. We started going the right direction, but I doubted myself. We called Rachel's friend who told us we needed to go the other direction. Ten minutes later, though, I was absolutely certain that I was going the right direction the first time. We didn't make it out of Detroit until nearly an hour after the concert had ended. We were tired and beat, but we weren't about to spend a night in a town with no signs of hope (or helpful directions). Detroit! ...yeah, whatever.

Ann Arbor! What's up?!

I'll Get There Fast and then I'll Take it Slow

Sweet Jesus, I need an escape. That probably sounds pretty ridiculous to anyone who knows what my life has been like for the last year and a half. I’m always running off to somewhere. But, as I’ve said before, most of my trips have been rocket trips. I need a good ole fashioned vacay. The last time I hung out on a warm beach was the summer of 2005. It wasn’t a very good beach and I was with a whiney boyfriend. We didn’t last long.

I’m not exactly a beach baby. Even growing up in Florida, right by the ocean, I never cared much for the sand between my toes or in other parts of my body. I’d dive around in the ocean all day, but as soon as I was required to sit down for five minutes in the, ick, sand…I was over it. These days I regret never fully optimizing my time on the beach.

The last and one of the very few times I managed to just relax for long lengths of time on the beach was the long weekend I spent at Panama Beach. It was my freshman year of college in Tallahassee. I had two awful roommates and one roommate who refused to get involved. I needed a getaway. In October I booked two nights in a hotel right on the beach. It was off season, so it was dirt cheap. Sometimes, when I’m caught up in finishing school, meeting a deadline an article, or two-hundred pages into my third rewrite of this ridiculous novel I started forever ago, I long to head straight back to Panama Beach and that hotel.

The hotel was far from anything special. It was three floors of rooms full of the same tropical printed polyester comforters every other hotel in the southern part of the world uses. But it was on the beach. It was also clean, had a balcony that overlooked the ocean and the pool and had terracotta tiles. I’m not sure why the terracotta tiles were important, but I was impressed. I live in Ohio now, have a hard time imagining ever living in Florida again, but still think about having a living room floor made of large, terracotta tiles and it started that first afternoon in the hotel.

It may have been Florida, but it was still October. I spent my entire first day on the balcony in jean shorts and my FSU sweatshirt. I varied between looking at the ocean and looking at my laptop screen (mostly my laptop screen, though). Tallahassee was more inland than I was used to, so just breathing in the salty air of Panama was refreshing enough. That night I did what every guide book for absolutely any city, no matter how safe, would advise a young, single girl not to do: I left my sliding glass door wide open and fell asleep listening to the sounds of the waves crashing against the sand.

The next day I had only three things on my agenda and the first was food. I’d spotted a free-standing Chik-fil-a just a few miles back down the strip and I was determined to have lunch there. This was back before Chik-fil-a overtook the world and free-standing ones were like mini-Meccas only scattered every few hundred miles or so. I rolled out of bed at noon and headed straight for the illiterate cows. Oh, heavenly sweet tea!

Next on my list of things to do was to hit the souvenir shops. I had it in my head that the best Christmas gifts I could give my family were incredibly ridiculous and unneeded merchandise promoting Panama Beach tourism. I’ve yet to find anywhere more interesting, colorful and incredibly useless than a souvenir store. I love them. I love the snow globes and the various sized ships in varying sizes of bottles. I adore the postcards that range from overly cheesy, to incredibly inappropriate to downright disconnected to the scene. I always buy more postcards than I’ll ever send. The best thing about souvenir shops in Florida (and I imagine any other beach town) is that you can also get awesome towels, blow-up alligator floats (always the most popular) and water shoes. These things are, of course, absolutely necessary for the two to five days you’ll be spending on the beach this year. I left with a red & white Hawaiian print towel (despite already owning enough beach towels to sew together and keep the Statue of Liberty modest), a mobile made of ribbons, I can’t even remember what I got for my dad and, of course, probably a dozen postcards.

Walking out of my third (or twelfth) souvenir shop I looked up and laid eyes on what had to be the most amazing thing ever. A Dippin’ Dots store! That’s right! You know those kiosks in half the malls in America? The ones that sell ice cream that’s been frozen into tiny balls, thus making it take longer to melt. In Panama Beach they have a whole store! With tables and everything! I got a huge cup of minuscule chocolate balls and then plopped down at a picnic table to stare, bored, at the wall while I devoured them. Why? Because I could.

The last thing on my list was, of course, to write. This time I headed down to the beach with my notebook. Only a smattering of brave tourists splashed toward the water up and down the shockingly white beach (I grew up in Palm Beach. On the east coast, sand is beige. As it should be thank you very much.). I imagined they were all from Canada or Norway, some place where 65 degrees qualified as a record-high, even in July. I plopped down in a chair, pulled my knees up to my chest and my sweatshirt down over my knees and began to write.

At least for a paragraph or two.

When I woke-up it was almost dark. I trudged my way back up to my hotel room, crawled into my bed (again, with the sliding glass door open) and fell asleep. The next morning it was time to head home. I checked out at 12:01 p.m., drove to the nearby Eglin Air Force Base to gawk at boys in uniform for awhile, stopped off at a K-Mart so my parents could transfer me the money I needed to buy gas and get home (Damn Souvenir Shops!) and then headed back to Tallahassee.

I’m not positive, but I think that was my first and only experience with a real vacation. It was the kind of trip where every day wasn’t a new destination. It was one of those vacations where you have no itinerary other than to get to your hotel before midnight Friday night and then not check out until the last minute on Sunday. It was fun but laid-back. Inspiring but not exhausting. I’m ready for another trip like that.

Twenty, Twenty, Twenty-four Hours to Go-o-o!

I just watched Anthony Bourdain’s new show, The Layover. The concept had me hooked from the start. To begin with, it’s a show with Anthony Bourdain. My love for that graying, crotchety, rock star chef is borderline creepy. My mother, when referring to him, often calls him my “boyfriend.” Right off the bat I knew I’d love this show. The basic gist is, “This is what you do if you only have 24 hours in a city.” Even at my best I am still the most impatient and ADD person I know. Even the cities I love most in the world have a hard time holding my attention-span after a day or two. This is the show for me. I thought I’d share with you my a few cities I’d love to visit for a day. It’s not comprehensive, but it’s a start.

The newest city added to my list (thanks entirely to my boyfriend and his new show) is Singapore. I love ethnic food and apparently Singapore is chock full of immigrants and thus boasts some of the best ethnic food in the world, according to Anthony Bourdain. Because Singapore is anally clean, they rounded up all their street vendors and corralled them into open-air but cleaned up areas. That means I can have all the steamed, stick’ed and fried meats I wanted without having to worry if I’m going to end up with salmonella. Dream come true. Literally. Also, as the ex-wife of a DAAP student, I have an appreciation for architecture and from what I saw on The Layover, Singapore has all sorts of amazing buildings. From one that looks like a lotus flower to a surfboard shaped bar that features an infinity pool and is stretched across three skyscrapers, there are plenty of brand new, glorious buildings to take in and more appearing almost monthly. I also have a love for airports and Tony just said that Singapore has the best airport in the world. That man has spent time in far more airports than I have, so he ought to know.

I’d also like to visit Berlin for a day or two. One of my earliest memories involves sitting on my aunt’s big bed when I was around four years old and watching as they tore down the Berlin Wall. Because of that one tiny memory, I’ve always had a minor obsession with Germany. These days, I can’t imagine there is much there to catch my interest. But I’d love to visit the museum dedicated to the Berlin wall, as well as walk the cobblestone line where the Berlin Wall once stood. I honestly feel like everyone should. We keep putting up walls and fences, like the one in Ireland (is it still there?) and the one in Texas that they keep threatening to make taller, thicker, stronger. I imagine if everyone walked the cobblestone markings of the Berlin Wall, spent time in the museum, asked a German or two what they thought of that awful situation that maybe people would stop trying to separate and start trying to come together. Or maybe that’s just my inner-John Lennon shining through. Berlin always seems like a really grey town, so I think I’d grow sick of it pretty fast.

Speaking of grey, there’s a small fishing town on one of the Scottish Isles called Stornoway. The average high temperature in July is a balmy 60 degrees, which already makes it sound pretty awesome to me. But, goat head is apparently a delicacy there. I want to try it. I also think it’s interesting that with only 9,000 people it’s the largest town in the Western Isles. Can you imagine? That seems so tiny compared to the towns I’ve lived in-my high school actually had 4,500 students during my junior year. There isn’t a whole lot to do in Stornoway. But, there is a castle. Plus, I’m a sucker for marinas, damp air and colorful boats.
Granted, I doubt I’ll ever have a layover in Stornoway, so this will require an actual trip. But, when I’m making my way through Ireland, Scotland & England…this will be an easy stop over. I imagine myself hulled up in a tiny room overlooking the water. I’ll probably spend one day wandering and another day staring out the window and/or writing. It’s kind of perfect for me, really.

I’m sure there are more. These are my top picks, though. Up tomorrow (or maybe just later): Panama City or possibly a list of my dream places to escape the world and write for awhile (once I’m rich enough to be able to take a month off and spend it in some place other than my apartment).

Lord, I was born a Ramblin' Girl

Speaking of not being as well-traveled as some people think: I’ve never been out of the country. Recently, I’ve had multiple concerts in Canada that I’ve been tempted to go to, but…it seems like such a waste for my first trip out of the country to be Canada. There are so many places out of the country that I’d like the chance to see.

Even as a kid in primary school my idea of an epic adventure was to go to Ireland. I think that’s why I don’t want to go to Canada first. I’ve loved Ireland for the entirety of my life and I’m bound and determined to make Ireland the very first stamp on my passport. I don’t want to just visit Ireland, either. I want to explore it. I want to see every inch of those shockingly green hills, crawl out to the edge of every windy cliff and get wasted in absolutely all the best pubs. I want to hang out with chubby, ruddy-cheeked old men and ask them about “The Troubles.” (Read: The conflict between Protestant and Catholic Irishmen) I want to take a black cab tour of Belfast. I want to see the Jameson factory in Dublin. But I want to hit all the tiny east coast villages, too. I won’t be happy until I can stay a week in a nice little bed and breakfast (or, you know, a castle) and just…write.

Of places I’m okay just visiting-France is at the top of my list. I know everyone swoons over Paris, and I suppose I’d like to see it, but it’s not at the top of my list. Nope. The only place in France that makes me swoon is Versailles. Sweet Jesus, that place is gorgeous. In ‘Marie Antoinette’ Sophia Coppola did an excellent job of highlighting enormous parts of the Palace of Versailles and the gardens that surround it. Even the parts that weren’t actually filmed in the Palace seem to be fairly accurate representations. Even still, I want to see it in person. I want to walk on the same steps as Marie Antoinette, no matter how controversial she may be. Revolutionary events took place on those grounds. I want to stand there and try to channel in on the rumblings of thousands of angry people. Nothing gets me more excited than reliving civil unrest!

As completely unaware as this next sentence is going to seem: I want to go surfing in Africa. I know that there are probably more selfless things to do in Africa and I certainly wouldn’t mind doing that, too. However, I want to surf. Blame it on my growing up in South Florida or on my high school obsession with Endless Summer (also probably to blame on growing up in South Florida), but that’s what I want the most. I’d mainly like to visit Barra Point, off the coast of Mozambique. It’s known for having spectacular waves over a rocky, coral-ly ocean floor. Honestly, it’s above my skill-level. But you can bet your ass I plan on going out there. Worst case scenario…I die. But, dude, what a story for my family to tell! Stranger, “How’d your daughter die?” Mom, “She was crushed against a rock by a wave while surfing off the coast in Africa.” It’s right up there with all the times, when I was younger, that the fighting reared up in Ireland and I ached to go see the action for myself. It’s not about wanting to die-it’s wanting to live. Death is a small price to pay, as we all have to pay it at some point.

This is getting heavier than I meant. I think I’ll continue this later. I don’t want to overwhelm you…or myself.

Just a Small Town Girl, Dreamin' of Seein the WO-ORLD!

Jenny recently referred to me as “well-traveled.” Honestly, I scoffed. In the last few years, after having finally gotten my hands around the steering wheel of a reliable car, I’ve made the rounds to some nearby places. Yes, New York is 12 hours away and, yes, New Orleans is 14 hours away. Still, they weren’t in any way foreign or exotic. I’d been to New Orleans before and I’d lived two (horrible) summers of in New York. I’ve not been east of New York, not west of New Orleans in the south or Milwaukee in the north. Also, most of the places I’ve visited have been for “rocket trips”-I’ve graced most cities for less than 24 hours. Plus, there’s not really anything all that unique or mysterious about places like Atlanta, Philadelphia or Chicago and the highways I take to get there are all ones I’ve traveled a multitude of times. I realize that my list of places I’ve been is far longer than some people’s lists. However, when it’s compared to the list of places I haven’t been and all the roads I’ve yet to travel-I look pretty damn sheltered. Even in the states, I’ve been to less than half the states. I want to visit almost all of them, though some more than others.

I’ve not been to Texas. Everyone I know who has been to or lived in Texas promises me that I’m not missing anything. I say the same thing about Florida, though, and people still go. I want to experience the kind of heavy heat that makes you start sweating the minute you open the car door. I want to see cacti! I want to smell to know what breathing dry air feels like-it’s a totally foreign concept to me. I want to two-step in an old barn-turned-bar, hit up South-by-Southwest, confront a rattlesnake (at a very safe distance and I most certainly do not want to touch it), and camp out under the stars as I make my way on I-10 through the very middle of the state.

I want to live in Colorado even though, you know, I’ve never been there. I want to be out-numbered by Subarus as I circle my way up to mountaintops. Then, I want to not to break my neck as I snowboard by way back down. Renting one of those “ski-in” chalets sounds like the most glorious thing ever, even though I doubt I have the athletic coordination to manage skis. (I know what you’re thinking. But, I’ve heard that if you can surf, you can snowboard. Since I haven’t killed myself trying to surf, I imagine that means I’ll survive trying to snowboard.) This might be the strangest thing ever, but I want to see mansions in Colorado. I picture these magnificent structures made of pine and river rock with steps made of flagstone. I have no idea what exactly flagstone looks like, but it my head it’s beautiful. Also, Colorado seems like a state with a lot of greens and oranges in its landscape. I’ve grown up with a lot of blues and greys, so I welcome the change.

Then there is the entire west coast. From cold green dampness of Washington and Oregon, through the forested part of California, all the way down to the plastic-y, beach-y part. I want to take one long drive that lasts a week or two and see it all. Apparently, Seattle is one of the few places in America where lavender grows as successfully as it does in Italy. I want to see it, and maybe try for myself. I want to kayak through choppy black waters (and hopefully not die.) and surf off rocky, cliffed beaches. I also want to see the Full House house, go down that super curvy road and hang out with the California set of surfers. I’ve heard they’re a million times more chill than the ones in Florida.

Of course, it’s important to note that I can’t imagine flying to any of these places. I would consider it, of course, if I were making another one of my rocket trips. But, ultimately, I’d love to drive all the way out there. In other words, I’d be hitting other places along the way. I’d spend a day at the cowboy museum, check out the memorial for the Oklahoma City Bombing, do the St. Louis Arch and, of course, take a stroll around the Grand Canyon. Basically, in a whole month I probably still couldn’t cover all of the United States that I’m most eager to visit. Then there’s my international wish list! But, I’ll save that for another day.

"Headin' down south to the land of the pines"

I grew up riding in the backseat during a multitude of trips between Florida and Ohio. I can't remember ever not knowing that if you hopped on I-75, it would take you all the way from our house in South Florida to my grandparents' farm in Lebanon, Ohio. I've also always known the best towns, the cleanest bathrooms and the least scary hotels along the way. After not having taken that drive in about five years, I was super stoked last summer when I took my ill-fated trip to Bonnaroo (for more on that, click here), as it meant I would be on I-75 once again. I would spend all night and the following dawn cutting my way through the pine trees and "mountains" of the Smokey's on my way to Manchester, Tennessee. What I didn't expect, though, was the amazing sight that I'd roll across once I ventured off I-75 and headed west on I-24.

There, in the middle of the southern mid-west, nestled down into a valley between a handful of mountains, was a decent sized lake. It was blue and sparkling and covered in the kind of fog only 6 a.m. can conjure. Then, jabbing right out of the middle of the lake, was an island of pine trees. With the bright, summer greenness contrasting against the grey fog and blue of the freshwater lake, it immediately reminded me of the island from "Lost." The highway engineers seemed to know what they were doing when they built I-24, too, because they curved the four-lane road almost 180 degrees around the island. There's even a small pull-off look-out area so the gaping travelers don't collect the morning commuters into a massive accident. I've yet to pass through there with the time to pull off, but it's a tiny feat on my bucket list, that's for sure.

During my trip to Bonnaroo, I soon had to get off that highway and onto another one. Earlier this year, though, on my way to New Orleans, I had the chance to jump onto I-24, again. This time I was graced with its asphalt for a much longer journey. The road curves in and over, down and around, mountain after mountain. On each side of the road dark green pines jut up around you and at dusk, the golden sun glitters through. There's absolutely nothing about my description that isn't entirely cliche sounding, but that's exactly how it is on that section of I-24. The entire trip feels as if you're driving through a music video for a James Taylor or John Denver song. It is a well-paved, well-traveled country road and it is definitely one of my favorites.

If you're driving on I-24 and not listening to Old Crow Medicine Show, you're doing it wrong. Here's the song I pulled my title from...

If you like banjo, fiddle or songs about drinking/drugs/traveling, check out OCMS. Especially Live! This gig was pretty tame, but they can put on a rowdy show sometimes.