For as long as anyone can remember, I have been afflicted by wanderlust. I first became aware of my condition as a child sitting with my parents in church one Sunday morning. At one point during the service, the minister announced that the youth group was planning a trip to Brazil. Excited about the opportunity to venture to a foreign land, I turned to ask my parents if I could go. To my surprise, they said yes. I began to daydream about this sojourn, wondering what I would pack, what I might see and how long I would be gone. Moments later my mother interrupted my fantasy by stating, ‘You do know they’re going to Brazil, Indiana, don’t you?’ Unsurprisingly, a trip to the county seat of Clay County, Indiana, which was less than forty miles from our house in West Central Indiana, did not appeal to my sense of adventure and, accordingly, I declined the opportunity. To this day, I’m not sure if I have been to the city of Brazil, although I’m fairly certain I’ve traveled through it. I certainly don’t recall seeing scantily clad dancers sambaing in a carnival parade the last time I traveled on US-40.

In the years following that disappointment, I have sought out opportunities to travel whenever possible. However, I have come to learn that I am not – nor do I want to be – the typical tourist. I am not likely to sign up for a package tour. I do not care about seeing every cathedral in Europe nor do I plan to take in a major league game in every baseball stadium in the USA. On the contrary, I am far more likely to plan a trip to the upstate of South Carolina to attend Bubbafest (which I have done) or to Montana to attend the Testicle Festival (which I have not done – yet).