From the lakes of Minnesota.

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Jun and I spent this past Fourth of July crisscrossing the country from St. Paul, Minnesota back to Orlando, Florida. Our convoy consisted of one 26' Penske moving truck, one minivan, ten people (including four ten-and-unders), two walkie-talkies and one phenomenal novel.

In volunteering for this trip, I thought to myself how romantically patriotic it would be to hit the open road, midwest wind in my hair and the warmth of the sun caressing my bare, halter-topped shoulders. Our pit-stops would somehow land us in local farmer's markets where I'd sample all the local produce, smiling my pink-tinged smile dribbling with fresh watermelon juice. I'd get an education on the culture of middle America, a new perspective that arose out of real interaction and not one borne out of stereotypes learned in the bigger city.

OK, hold it. Reality check.

In every slight mention of the trip, Jun could instantly tell that the inevitable had happened; yes, my imagination had, once again, run away with me. Taking some damage control, he gently reminded me that no, this was not a vacation, this was to help his sister's family move and no, whatever movie-esque road trip my mind had conjured was not what the reality was to be. "What a killjoy", I said.

Fast-forward to early morning moving day. OF COURSE we arrive to the house and barely anything was packed. Why, Lord, did Jun and I have 10+ drinks each last night? Why did we come home at 5 A.M.? Whyyyy? With heavy sighs, we swallowed our hangovers and put out alcohol-ridden bodies to work. Note to self: hard labor cures liquor induced illnesses.

Finally, after hours of going up and down that steep Penske ramp, we were well on our way. Notebook and pen in hand, I was ready to have my own Kerouac-inspired adventure.

I was excited enough when we started out. Cute little red farmhouse? Grab the camera! We're passing through the smokey mountains? Glee! But little by little, my psyche tumbled down Maslow's heirarchy. Fifty-three hours of gravel, and all I had left was a blur of endless corn fields and windmills and rest-stops. Most profound thoughts at this point? Need to pee! Need to sleep! Why didn't I bring four more books?

And so I sit here, not with a bag of local produce, but with a body recovering from hosting every strain of cough existing in each of the seven states we journeyed. Despite the fact I wasn't able to write the JDL version of On the Road or will ever be able to step into a public restroom the same way again, the question remains...

would I do it all over again?

You betcha.