Since I am only 15 years old, I don’t believe I’ve found my true querencia. I don’t feel I’ve lived long enough, had an adequate amount of experiences, and traveled to a sufficient number places to know where I feel most at home in the world. However, there is one spot I do love to go. It’s not a concrete place, like a special room in my house, not a quaint library filled with thousands of books, not a cozy café where artistic types gather, not even a particular site only found in nature. Though, all of those things do fill me with immense joy.

My special place is always on the move, always traveling to some new destination, always on a journey. Have you guessed it? I’ll give you a hint. It has four wheels and is powered by gasoline. No, it’s not the Batmoblie, but that would be cool. My favorite place to be is traveling in the car. I don’t mean taking a trip down to the corner store. I mean taking a trip to somewhere new and undiscovered, a location far away from home. I love to sit in the backseat, while my parents drive and listen to my iPod playing The Beatles or Maroon 5. Sometimes, I have my dog plopped down on the seat next to me, her head in my lap, drooling on my new pants. (It’s okay Annie, I forgive you.) I delight in gazing out the window at the scenery that goes by. I love to people-watch, wondering about each person’s life story. I often wonder if the tired lady coming out her front door at 6 a.m. realizes that she’s wearing her pink robe and matching bunny slippers to retrieve her paper or if the girl carrying four backpacks really has that many books. I treasure taking the back roads to arrive at a destination, which could be anywhere in the world, rather than travel on the monotonous stretch of asphalt called a “highway.” However, one can see many characters driving on the highway, including a clown in full costume and a woman putting on mascara while talking on the phone and drinking coffee.

The best time to travel in the car is autumn. Nothing fills me with more pleasure than driving down a rustic country lane, passing trees of every color-fire engine red, goldenrod yellow, citrus orange, and caramel brown. I love driving by aged, tattered picket fences, fields of rolling olive hills, flowers of every imaginable color, cows grazing in meadows, and charming homes full of life and love.

To me, the excursion in the car is sometimes better than the destination. I’m gloomy when the car stops and the engine turns off. I sigh, shut off my iPod, and wait in anticipation for the ride home, which will be filled with even more amazing sites. At least I have a notebook full of my thoughts and the images to remind me of the journey. The only downside to the trips is avoiding the crazy drivers that make me wonder how they ever passed their driver’s test. Oh well, they give me more stories to write.