The thing about road trips is they rarely feel like the movies. Nobody bursts into song at the state line, the gas stations don’t always have clean bathrooms, and the miles stretch on longer than you think they should. And yet, there’s a kind of magic in watching the world change out your window, one state at a time.
Leaving Georgia felt like slipping out of one story and into another. At first, it was just familiar scenery: pines standing tall, the shimmer of Lake Harding, the kind of back roads I could drive with my eyes closed. But mile by mile, the South began to shift into something else.
Georgia gave way to South Carolina, then North Carolina, with its mountains rising in the distance. I stopped at a diner just outside Charlotte where the waitress called me “honey” and kept refilling my coffee even though I’d barely taken a sip. It felt like home — until I stepped outside and realized I was already farther than I’d ever driven alone.
By the time I reached Virginia, the air felt different — cooler, crisper, like it had more room in it. I rolled down the windows and let the wind tangle my hair, pretending the highway hum was a soundtrack meant just for me. Somewhere along I-81, I caught sight of a barn painted with the words “See Rock City.” I laughed out loud, because no matter how far you go, the South has a way of following you.
Pennsylvania stretched on forever, a patchwork of farmland and small towns with church steeples piercing the horizon. I stopped for gas in a place where the man behind the counter asked if I was “headed up for leaf season.” I didn’t have the heart to tell him I wasn’t chasing fall colors — I was chasing something less easy to explain.
New Jersey and New York were a blur of tolls, bridges, and traffic that had me gripping the wheel tighter than a hymnal on Sunday morning. I’m not sure I breathed until I crossed into Connecticut and found myself on quieter roads, lined with stone walls and maples already showing hints of red.
The closer I got to Maine, the more the world began to smell different. Not just the air, but the gas stations, the roadside diners, even the rain. There was a sharpness to it, like pine needles and sea salt mixed together. I felt like I was driving toward a coastline I couldn’t see yet, but could already sense waiting for me.
I spent one night in a little inn in New Hampshire, the kind with quilts on the beds and tea waiting in mismatched mugs. The woman who ran it asked what brought me north, and when I said “a new chapter,” she didn’t press me. She just smiled in that knowing way of someone who’s seen plenty of wanderers pass through.
By the time I crossed the Maine state line, I’d lost count of the hours, but I knew I was close. The road narrowed, winding through pines so tall they felt like a tunnel. Then, just as I was wondering if I’d taken a wrong turn, the trees opened up — and there it was.
A sliver of harbor. Boats rocking gently on the water. Gulls wheeling overhead. The smell of salt so sharp it made me catch my breath.
I pulled over on the side of the road, stepped out of the car, and just stood there, letting it all wash over me. The long road north had brought me somewhere entirely new — and for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t thinking about where I’d come from or where I’d go next. I was just there.
And that felt like a beginning.
