The summer of 1971 gave me my first taste of the wider world. Our family packed up the car and drove east to visit my Aunt Elaine and Uncle Dale in Whippany, New Jersey. At the time, a two-day drive felt monumental. I had never been that far from home, and every mile seemed to stretch me further into something new. The smell of warm vinyl car seats, the low drone of the highway, the endless gas stations and roadside diners—it all felt like an initiation into a real adventure.
Even the overnight stops left their mark. At one motel, we found a pool, which seemed like the perfect escape after hours in the car. But when night fell, the floodlights drew bats. They swooped low and fast sending us scrambling for cover. I remember the sound of their wings, sharp and papery, and the mixture of laughter and fear. At the time it was chaos; now it’s the kind of memory that makes me smile at how travel always carries the unexpected.
When we finally arrived in Whippany, Elaine and Dale’s home felt safe and welcoming, but the real thrill was the trip into New York City. Driving through one of the tunnels from New Jersey, the car filled with the echo of engines and the thick smell of exhaust. Then suddenly, daylight opened up to the New York skyline that took my breath away. Those towering buildings—so impossibly tall—seemed to lean over the car as we craned our necks to see the tops. The World Trade Center, still brand-new, gleamed like a promise of the future. We had no way of knowing the tragedy that would occur there later.
At the Statue of Liberty, I remember looking up at her raised torch, feeling small in her shadow. Later, in the Garment District, I learned firsthand how fast the city moves. One moment I was gawking at storefronts; the next, a cart piled with dresses came flying toward me, pushed by a man shouting for me to get out of the way. It was funny in hindsight, but in that moment it felt like a lesson: in New York, the city doesn’t slow down for anyone.
The traffic was its own kind of spectacle—horns blaring in every direction, yellow cabs weaving recklessly, voices rising above the street noise. For a ten year old kid from Saint Louis, it was overwhelming, but not in a bad way. It felt alive, urgent, electric.
Looking back, that trip shaped my desire for travel. New York was the first place that made me understand the thrill of a city—its noise, its energy, its sheer size. Instead of being intimidated, I loved it. Even then I knew I would return, and I have, several times over the years. Yet nothing has ever quite equaled that first visit, when the world cracked open a little wider and showed me just how big and thrilling it could be.
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