I wonder if you remember when you took your first real trip, far enough away to realize that everyplace isn’t the same. As kids we went from our home of Kearny in north Jersey to the Jersey shore, which wasn’t really that far away. After all, it was still Jersey. But my father was an Iowa boy, and every August we drove to the midwest to visit his family. Once the Pennsylvania Turnpike was built, that meant a rapid fire highway trip through the tunnels, across Pennsylvania, through Ohio and Indiana and Illinois, across the Mississippi and into Burlington, Iowa, where my Aunt Dorothy and Uncle Owen lived. We stayed in Howard Johnson’s motels along the way; hot turkey sandwiches on white bread with gravy, and 31 flavors of ice cream. Once we got there, we ate mashed potatoes and sausage gravy, corn and tomatoes from the garden, and home made fruit pies. We didn’t eat things like that much at home.
Lily had her first taste of travel when she visited Seattle, and New Jersey, and New York. Now she’s in Tegucigalpa, and loving every moment. She’s doing the full-on tourist thing: panoramic vistas, iconic churches and statuary, food. It’s all good, and it’s called becoming a seasoned traveler.