Just returned home from a 2,200-mile, eleven-day Southern road trip which took me from Brooklyn to Atlanta and back, with stops in Charlottesville, Asheville, Savannah, and Wilmington.
Over the last couple years, my approach to solo trips boils down to a basic principle—I make no plans—I just hit the road and figure out the route as I go, staying where I please and leaving when I feel like it.
In the summer, I tend to reserve driving for the hottest hours of the day, which leaves me open to spend mornings and evenings in new or familiar places alike. If I want more time, I simply extend my stay.
This travel mode fits me, and allows for the most freedom, which is the itch I’m scratching when I roam.
Similarly, I try not to make photography the point of the trip, and instead, opt to free myself from the burden of fastidious documentation, which feels too labored. That’s not why I’m out here.
Having said that, my camera is never far from my reach, and the shots are too.
I’m 46 years old, so I’ve been driving for three decades now, having spent most of my licensed years in places where owning a car equals a notional freedom.
So, seeing open road feels like taking flight, especially now that I live in Brooklyn, which might be the least satisfying place to drive a car in the country.
Considering all that, you can see why a few times a year I have to remind myself of that sensation.
And in between the scenic pull-offs, junky drive-thrus, and roadside rests, in places first arrived or twice returned, that feeling stirs up again.
Let’s cross paths,
Luca Eandi
Chief Traversing Officer