Wanderlust is an incurable disease. I got it from National Geographic as a youth. A condition that became serious when my widowed mother married a modern day highwayman--a man who helped pave Route 66 across the southwest United States. I was six-years-old at the time, and the next twelve years saw me attending eleven different schools, at least a thousand of them while I was in the fourth grade.
My travel bug went undiagnosed, however, until I myself married an individual with a conveyance fetish--a man who lives to climb into or aboard any mode of transportation. I think it’s in his genes since he was born into a railroading family. His father and uncles were all railroad men--Burlington & Northern; Louisville and Nashville; Nashville, Chattanooga, and St. Louis.
Too late, I discovered hubby considered automobiles and train much too tame. He’s enamored with aerial tramways, roller coasters, and double-deck Ferris wheels. His idea of seeing San Francisco is to ride BART (Bay Area Rapid Transit) from one end to the other, and back again, an excursion that entails two trips beneath the waters of San Francisco Bay.
In the course of our marriage, I've strolled the decks of a paddle-wheeler in Fairbanks Alaska, gotten seasick on a Catamaran in Australia, ridden airboats on Oregon's Rogue River and again in the Florida Everglades, chugged along behind a historic steam engine to the Grand Canyon, and twisted along rickety rails through Mexico's Copper Canyon.
About the only things we haven't taken for a spin are ultra-lights, hot air balloons, and elephants. I have ridden camels in Nevada, however. And recently hubby announced he has always wanted to hang-glide.
Never a dull moment with this love-of-my-life!
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