And so it goes. This weekend we take a day off from work to head out on a ‘road trip.’ This is the American dream. A road trip to,  or through ‘The South.’ Living in central Florida, I would say that we are south of the south. We are in our own Disney loving swamp that isn’t Miami, that being chic or undeniably hot, but in the suburbs of no place.

What is the existential south? It’s slow afternoons on the porch, beach-goin, day drinkin, cemetery wanderin, football watchin, Bob Matthews talkin madness. (Bob Matthews being the family friend of a friend who brings out an Alabama drawl like nobody’s business.)

I am from ‘The West.’ It’s true that I am from about as west as it gets and have been transplanted into this place that is close to a place while not quite it. I come from rough and tumble, reserve is natural, scenery flies high just before plunging low, and pull up your bootstraps. We are all a product of something And so, we take trips to find something. Maybe rest? Home? Maybe respite? Southern hospitality? Probably all of those things. Probably magic.