When I’m driving home from work each evening, I find myself wanting to keep driving, to pass my exit, because my way home is south, and I want to keep going south. I want to drive until I see the deciduous trees give way to palm trees. I want to keep going until I can smell salt in the air. I don’t want to stop until I can hear the waves crashing. Then I want to stop and get out and walk with all of the happy tourists. I want to follow them into the souvenir shops with the plastic snowglobes and cedar boxes and screen print T-shirts. Things that will only collect dust once the traveler returns home, but will bring a smile to his face when he looks at it because he will remember the sound of the surf and the smell of the salt in the air and the pointy leaves of the palm trees and he will be happy again.
I keep getting off at my exit.