Sylvie and I have driven over 4,400 miles in less than two months, occasionally with Charles and often just the two of us. With Charles, we burn through the miles, stop for necessities only, and Sylvie, and I hope we don’t have to pee again for the rest of a very long time. When it’s a girl’s trip, however, Sylvie and I drive half as long each day. We stay in romantic B&B’s together, we find parks for frolicking and ball chasing, and we enjoy Starbucks and Puppichinos together when it strikes our fancy. There’s a stretch in Georgia where you’ll find yourself far far away from the nearest latte. Stop somewhere before you cross into that no man’s land and enjoy your coffee beverage of choice as you speed past the latte-less citizenry of the Peach State.
On our last solo trip, Sylvie and I had a fabulous visit to South of the Border for gas, a much needed potty break & leg stretch, souvenirs, snacks, and a photo shoot. Always pack a snack, lest you find yourself at Pedro’s Hot Tamale when you’re seeking something crisp and green. If this is you, head seven miles north to Subway. It’s slim pickings on that stretch of I-95 so eat your veggies with a smile, especially if you’ve already eaten the snacks your lovely in-laws packed for you 500 miles ago.
A stop at South of the Border wouldn’t be complete without artillery shells, rockets, mortars, and fireworks. Note the signage prohibiting fireworks from being set off within 300 feet of the store entrance. Luckily, there’s one-stop shopping at South of the Border for all your compulsory or ancillary explosive needs. I wonder about the occasions outside of the 4th of July that call for explosives. Sure, I can see spicing up the odd baby shower or wedding reception with sparklers but do the customers of South of the Border attend that many festive events? Surely they’re not taking artillery shells to weddings and what does one even do with rockets and mortars?
I’m not lion when I say that I specifically stopped at South of the Border to take pictures of Sylvie with concrete animals. Yes we needed gas, yes we needed a potty, but that’s all beside the point. If dog pictures are your MO, you’ve got to own it. They certainly have gas at other exits on 1-95 in Georgia; however, there’s no other Mexican oasis of the south anywhere. Anywhere at all, my friends.
Our photo shoot was rained out, but I love the smell of wet dog in the car. Sylvie feels similarly about wet humans.
Speaking of road trips with my dog that involves romantic B&B’s in Florida, while pets are welcome at this one, you should probably also bring along a human companion. Sylvie and I followed the scenic route along the St. John’s River to The Grand Gables Inn. Circa 1884 but newly opened, we were beyond fortunate to spend the night in a beautiful room before the official grand opening. The hosts are warm and welcoming, and they didn’t even make Sylvie wash dishes when she ate all the cat food.
Coming soon, more on that Florida B&B road trip in which I figuratively dangle my dog over the ledge. Also, Charles is absent from the blogosphere while he’s sailing offshore, details coming soon as well.
“The question isn’t who is going to let me; it’s who is going to stop me.” -A. Rand