When I turned forty, I decided to travel to the east coast. There was no particular reason except that I was restless. Katy had moved on, and really after her, not many stood a chance. So I figured I could use a holiday.
I had left bartending and become a manager at “sprawl mart. There was an opportunity to transfer to Virginia. Not many wanted to leave Texas, but I was ready and very willing. So, I applied, and after two phone interviews, I was hired. I immediately quit my job, sublet my apartment and headed up to Blue Ridge Mountain territory.
Being a cheap bastard, I decided to drive and pocket the rest of the moving allowance. I could think of better things I could do with the relocation money besides buying a plane ticket. Besides, I would really miss my truck if I had left it behind.
Taking a week of vacation time, I planned on enjoying this ride. The route I chose took me to Atlanta, Georgia, and then cut up north. I got the cheapest motel room I could find and hit the best barbecue joint the locals could recommend. Because of the area I stayed in, it was easy to find some real “home town folks who told me where to get some authentic BBQ and ice cold beer.