Week One: An Author Presents
Why do you travel? After returning from a three-week vacation to Florida, I decided to take a page from my high school and college students’ playbooks and, instead of reflecting, asked Chat GPT.
“Curiosity drives us to see what’s beyond the familiar. We want to understand other cultures, landscapes, foods, languages, and ways of life,” my robotic writing assistant said.
But really, why would we spend so much time and money to learn all that any number of PBS travel shows could teach us?
“People travel to visit loved ones, strengthen relationships, or meet new people,” Graham PenningTon replied (and yes, I’ve nicknamed my ChatGPT).
But we have social media, I pointed out.
“To break from routine, to become more resilient and adaptable, to challenge our assumptions and widen our world-view,” Graham spat out rapid fire, an air of manifest displeasure in his bolding.
In truth, these are benefits we obtain from travel, not the reasons we undertake the endeavor. It was then that my laptop promptly powered itself down.
Four years ago, Susan and I bought a minivan which, because it resembled an ancient Hebrew sea monster, we named Leviathan. I’ve never seen an ancient Hebrew sea monster, but I’m assuming the resemblance is uncanny. We could easily fit out our three (now four) children in our current car, but we had dreams. Well, a dream. Our dream was to show the children all fifty state capitals and then finish it off with a trip to D.C. Every summer since, and at least one Spring Break, we’ve made a special trip, ever more slightly out of our way, to visit at least one.
This summer, after Susan had worked for three long years getting her master’s in education, we decided to celebrate with a trip to the beach. The children had never seen the beach, never built a sandcastle with real beach sand, never splashed in the ocean. So it was decided. (Also, what better way to build resilience and adaptability, all while exposing them to different cultures?)
One great thing about driving 3000 miles in a minivan I just cleaned is that my children frequently get carsick. So as we left Garden City, Susan provided Charlie, Margot, Lucy, and Cat–what Lucy currently calls Bonnie for reasons that will become clear–with “nausea bags.” If you are unfamiliar with this term, let me define it for you. A nausea bag is a plastic sleeve in which one vomits.
“Does everyone have their nausea bag?” I called before starting Leviathan up.
Yes! Yep! Yeash! Meow…
And so we were off.
Our first stop was Wichita, a swift three-and-a-half hours away. The reason for our stopping over in Wichita was twofold: culture, in the form of dinner at Mediterranean Grill, and career opportunity, in the form of an author visit to the Wichita Public Library. Since the publication of my first novel, I’ve been presenting workshops throughout the country. Before you faint with how impressed you are, let me tell you this: with two strange exceptions, the audience has consisted mostly of empty chairs. At one, there was only one confused teenager, and so the librarian remained behind to keep him company.
Day two, the real fun began, and by fun, I of course mean vomiting. I’ve cleaned a lot of body fluids up as dad, but I think by far the worst is vomit in a minivan. The way it slides down the side of seats, creeps under the flimsily attached carpet, and lingers in the air for weeks: there’s really nothing like it.
In Oklahoma City, we stopped to see Susan’s bestie, Hailey, and her boys, and to get in some games of pickleball. “You know we have social media for catching up,” I reminded her, but she insisted we “see” and “talk to” her friend. Go figure!
Lucy has a habit of leaving the group, for going off the beaten path, if you will, lighting out for the territory. I want to encourage her sense of adventure, but it nearly always ends with me making small talk with strangers I would change lanes on the interstate to avoid. So while the big kids played a life-sized game of Battleship, unhampered by strangers, I crouched next to my two-year-old as she socially engaged the palest toddler I’ve ever seen. “But what do we do for money?” the very bald, gray-bearded father (grandfather?) asked his wife (daughter?) and her friend (sister-wife?).
“We could just start building houses,” one of them suggested.
“I love it!”
The worst part about strangers is that they engage with Lucy in a way that makes her think we shouldn’t run for our lives. When I could handle no more discomfort, I announced it was time to leave and frantically began calling for all the children to find their mothers which, now that I reflect on it, probably made me sound a bit like a polygamist myself.
In the lead-up to our trip, there was much speculation about whether we’d see what Margot has helpfully renamed “hateful bugs.” I frequently blame hateful bugs for my flight from the American South. It was in Dallas that we made our first sighting.
I had just set up Lucy’s pack-n-play when Susan gasped. “By your foot,” she said, lip trembling.
I realized with sudden fright that my shoes were across the hotel room, meaning I would face the putrid beast in my socks.
“Here,” she said, steeling herself for the encounter. “Take my shoe.” She extended it like a club.
“No. This is something I must face myself.”
I bounded to the door, knocking into Bonnie, who batted and hissed at me, and snatched my tennis shoe by the toe. When I turned back, I saw the vermin lurching, pesticide-drunk, toward my wife. “You stay the @#$% away from my wife, you son-of-a-beach!” (Okay, I may be exaggerating here.) Anyway, I smacked it, slid its cold corpse into the trash can, and then we walked to dinner.
In Baton Rouge, we stayed at our first AirBNB. If you haven’t stayed in one, I’ll just make this quick SAT comparison for you. Camping is to Hotels as Hotels are to Airbnbs. There’s something particularly unsettling about eating, watching TV, and sleeping all on the same polyester bedspread. Hotels are the reason we nearly scrapped the whole capital trip endeavor. After changing Margot (then two years old) on the floor of our third hotel in three days, this one with a malfunctioning air conditioner, Susan decided we needed a new plan. Thus began our love affair with Airbnb. To cook a meal in a real kitchen, to lounge in an actual living room, and then to send your kids into the backyard to fight so you don’t have to listen to them, these are things I simply can’t give up.
Now, imagine the house was everything you wish your house could be. (Sorry, Bluetopia! And yes, we’ve also named our house.) Because the Baton Rouge house was owned and designed by none other than Kenneth Brown, interior designer to the stars. Everything was so intentional and luxurious and yet cozy that I had to wonder if this was living, then what had I been doing all those years?
I presented twice at the East Baton Rouge Parish Library, then we hit the road for the beach–but not before getting some “bagoots,” what Charlie calls beignets. Coffee Call was no Cafe du Monde, but it had chicory coffee and they fried up a damn fine bagoot.
Steven J Kolbe 
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