When I was a little girl, one of my most favorite things to do was play ‘Where in the world?’ with my dad. Together we would pore over the glossy blue globe in the sunken basement of our suburban split-level, countries splashed in bright pink and yellow colors across its smooth surface. We soaked in places with exotic names printed in small black letters across its curve. Addis Ababa. Hungary. Argentina. Oslo. Madagascar.

My dad would pick a country or city and utter its magical name. Then he would spin the globe. When it stopped, I’d have to find it, poring over the squiggly lines and feeling my way across the bumpy continents inch by inch. This is how I first learned my way around the world.

Not long afterwards, I purchased my first cassette tape at the Schulykill Mall near my grandparent’s house. Blondie’s Greatest Hits. On it was a song called ‘Sunday Girl,’ half of it sung in French. I transcribed it word-for-word, sounding out every phrase phonetically, and proudly sang that stanza the loudest not having any idea what it said. I was determined to learn French and go to Paris.

I did study French (with a double major in English) and spent a semester there in college. In the springtime, no less. I stumbled around Paris feeling like it was the absolute center of the universe. It was a city filled with people from around the world.

I remember the intoxicating smell of jasmine that filled the metro when it passed through the African neighborhood. The standing-room only crowd of Parisians assembled to hear a lecture on baroque dance and the court of Louis XIV at the opera house. The curses from the Moroccan merchant in the Marche aux Puces who tried to sell me a small drum, for which I bargained for five minutes in good sport and then walked away. The shawarma man barking at me from behind his counter, competing with for my franc with a line of shops with the same grid of Technicolor photos of kebobs and gyros.

Not only was Paris filled with all manner of folks from around the world, but I felt like you could get absolutely anywhere from there, just by walking down the street and hopping on a train or a plane. The world exploded for me.

When I was really little I used to cry when my parents would explore the back roads that snaked along farmer’s fields and through forests where I grew up in Maryland. I was inconsolable, apparently. I was sure we would never, ever find our way home. By the time I got my driver’s license, I was getting myself lost in suburban neighborhoods just to find my way back. The challenge was delicious.

To this day, I’m never more happy than when I’m traveling. Whether it’s Birmingham, Alabama —I was seriously close to tears when I landed at the old super-mod pop art air terminal—or taking two planes and bus to get to white-washed caves in Granada, Spain, to learn how to dance flamenco. It is my true love.

Now I’m sharing my peregrinations with you. I have a tendency to seek out the unusual, off-the-beaten-path, out-of-the-ordinary spots. Whether it’s places to stay (Watch a drive-in move from your room, anyone?), fascinating people (Did you know Bigfoot likes cinnamon danish?), or breathtaking or totally weird points of interest (The National Museum of Dentistry is totally cool, trust me!), I’m on it.

So put on your seatbelt and join me for the ride!

Amy