My father was not the Wandering Aramean, but he sure did travel a lot. And every time he left, it meant that there was a pretty good chance that I was going to get a present out of the deal. The cool pajamas from China is the gift that I probably remember best, but there were others, from France and Italy and South Korea and other places around the country and around the world. To me, they were more than just a special treat. They were also an introduction to the idea that there was a great big world out there, just begging to be experienced.
And then there were the stories. Every destination had one. Whether it was the nice inn-keeper in Brimfield, Massachusetts who kept the same room available for each visit – a bit of a home away from home – or being repaid for a transatlantic plane ticket, in cash, with Lira, filling up boxes of currency and having to walk back to the hotel carrying all of it, the stories that came along with the trips were a gift in their own right.
And so the travel bug was planted in me. The desire to see, feel, taste, touch, hear and truly experience as much of the world as I could. To create my own collection of stories (yes, I found a hotel in Minneapolis that gave me the same room for 5 consecutive months) about this great place we live on and see what troubles I could get myself in to (and out of) along the way.
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