Travel: My “Eat Pray Love”Adventure
A mother drives across nineteen states to see her freshman son for a day.
It was the beginning of October last year. I was in Key West, Florida, working on a travel story when my son called from Boston. His college had advised out-of state students to avoid air travel due to the pandemic.
His returning home to Atlanta for a visit seemed unlikely for several months.
I pondered this news standing at the southernmost point of the United States, looking across the Atlantic. A red buoy bobbing over the surface of the ocean ushered in a blithe idea. I could drive up the eastern seaboard to visit my son! As a recently divorced woman, I imagined myself cast as an intrepid solo traveler driving down a deserted highway in some feminist indie film about self discovery. I charted my course— one thousand seven hundred and ten miles from Key West to Boston by road. I was ready for the adventure—seeing new sights, eating local specialties, taking artsy pictures, and listening to music and audio books of my choosing.
The following morning, I visited a few more landmarks in Key West: The Hemingway Home & Museum, The Key West Lighthouse and The Key West Butterfly & Nature Conservatory. Walking along the winding path through the enclosed sanctuary at the Conservatory, I overheard two women talking behind me, “They say if you are sad, a butterfly will sit on you.” It warmed my heart to see butterflies fly within touching distance but never seek a perch on my person. I was indeed in a peaceful place and ready to embark on my journey with a light heart and merry determination—just as soon as I finished my Key Lime Pie on a stick at Kermit’s Key Lime Shop.
I drove along the Florida coast through Cape Canaveral where I had recently spectated a SpaceX rocket launch. If only all our scientific endeavors were propelled by benign intentions, our world would be a sanctum. Serendipitously, John Lennon’s song Imagine came on the radio. I think of the song as a symphonic articulation of a world with “nothing to kill or die for.” Perhaps my son’s generation will be the one to make Lennon’s dream a reality.
[Right] The iconic fountain holds centerstage at the Forsyth Park in Savannah, Georgia.
The Exploration Tower at Port Canaveral is an impressive rocket-shaped structure that rivals its propelled compeers. A hundred and twenty-five miles north of the futuristic Tower stands one of the oldest cities in the U.S. St. Augustine was established as a Spanish outpost in 1565, over five decades before the pilgrims arrived in Plymouth. NASA’s proximity to this deep-rooted city is a curious juxtaposition of the past and the possible.
Most of the shops and restaurants in the Historic District in St. Augustine were closed due to the pandemic.
The isolation presented me with the unique opportunity to admire the much documented Spanish Colonial and Spanish Renaissance Revival architecture undistracted and undisturbed. A park bench under the umbra of Spanish moss trees at the Plaza de la Constitución served as the perfect setting for an alfresco dinner. I made it to the beach just in time to witness a splendid spectrum of colors—pale pinks and luscious lavenders—fan across the evening sky as the sun sank away.
A hundred and seventy-five miles further north of St. Augustine, Savannah is a mosaic of architectural styles—from Federal, Georgian and Gothic Revival to Modern. With numerous beautiful homes, parks and fountains forming an urban oasis, the city is a delight for tourists and residents. I parked (illegally) near the famous Forsyth Park Fountain and ran through the garden to snap a picture of the magnificent structure established in 1858. No visit to Savannah is complete without a stroll down the cobblestoned River Street. A sweet aroma lured me into River Street Sweets candy store where I purchased half a dozen fresh pecan pralines for my son. Across the store, a grand riverboat from yesteryears was gliding gracefully down the river. I took note of the unhurried pace of the vessel and reminded myself to enjoy the journey as I headed to my destination.
[Left] The author with her freshman son in Medford, Massachusetts
The miles eased past as I listened to Margret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale narrated by actress Claire Danes. I thought back to the days when my little children would squabble in the backseat as we drove around Atlanta for soccer, ballet, gymnastics, tennis and swim lessons. There was never a quiet moment where I could listen to 80s music or Hindi songs, let alone audiobooks that would scare the socks off little children. I relished the spoils of solitude, albeit I missed the giggles and groans.
Charleston is an old port city known for horse-drawn carriages and pastel antebellum houses. The charming town is frequently featured in travel and décor magazines. Recently, it has gained much popularity as a culinary landmark. Fleet Landing is an urban chic waterfront restaurant known for iconic local fare. A bowl of creamy She-crab soup and crisp-fried green tomatoes served with complimentary ocean breeze made for a perfect seaside meal.
While conversing about the pandemic with a server, I learned that the Historic Charleston City Market, one of the country’s oldest public markets, was open to mask-clad visitors. I watched a seventy-year-old woman weave locally sourced marsh grass into a sweetgrass basket with dexterous ease. She reminded me of a clog maker in a small village near Amsterdam. He fashioned a pair of clogs from a block of wood with the effort it would take me to boil an egg.
While Amazon could very well deliver a sweetgrass basket and Danish clogs to my doorstep in a matter of hours, the experience of watching traditional artistry cannot be packaged. I hope my son’s generation, accustomed to high speed automation, fosters an appreciation for singular, hand-made products.
The drive from Charleston to Fayetteville in North Carolina on the not-so-scenic I-95 was long and tedious. Gaudy billboards and unruly drivers are the bane of any road trip. Around 7 pm, I stopped at a roadside hotel in Virginia for a much-needed rest.
[Left] The Washington Monument
The following day, I got tested for Covid at a pharmacy and pushed forth. I have visited Washington DC several times in the past, but I felt compelled to pay homage to the nation’s capital. I spent a solemn moment at President Kennedy’s grave at the Arlington National Cemetery. In the distance, the majestic Washington Monument, the world’s tallest obelisk, soared as a beacon of our collective American pride.
By the time I reached the outskirts of Philadelphia, I was utterly exhausted. Nonetheless, I was able to see the Liberty Bell, albeit through a window, at the Independence National Historic Park. The following morning, I did what everyone must do at least once in Philadelphia. I ran—well, let’s say ascended briskly— the 72 Rocky Steps to the Philadelphia Museum of Art. At the helm, I raised my arms in jubilation like Sylvester Stallone in the film Rocky III. The fake feat justified the ginormous Philly cheesesteak sandwich I ate shortly after that!
On the third day of my journey, I listened to Shantaram on Audible. Based on actual events, it is an exquisitely crafted story of an escaped Australian convict who reinvents himself in the Mumbai slums. As the narrator described India’s chaotic traffic, I pulled into Boston jostling with drivers who cut and swerved like crazed New Delhi bus drivers. It was raining hard, and I was glad to have used Rain-X on my windshield. The heavy raindrops beaded up and rolled off, allowing for a relatively good line of sight despite the downpour.
[Right] A McDonald’s logo peeks through an Amish wagon!
As instructed by my son, I parked in a lot behind his dorm in Medford. He showed up a few minutes later in the cold rain wearing a hoodie, shorts and flip-flops. He had grown a beard. And he was, in my opinion, in dire need of a haircut. Far from home, my eighteen-year-old looked hairy, healthy and happy. In that single moment, I was glad to have made the long journey. I offered to take him to a nice restaurant for dinner or get take-out to eat in the car like we did when he and his sister were little.
“The food here is awesome,” he said enthusiastically. “I can order from three different places on campus on the dining app and eat as much as I want. Let me get us dinner instead.” We drove around campus to collect meals—pumpkin soup, a three-bean burger, a chicken wrap, and a kale and quinoa salad. My son is a conscientious eater who reads nutritional labels and shuns “the bad stuff.” The campus food was surprisingly nutritious and delicious, though the kale and radish collage was a bit too avant-garde for my desi palate.
When I gave him the pralines from Savannah, he commented that there was no nutritional information on the packaging. “At least eat one,” I urged. “It tastes like gur, jaggery, that unrefined sugar my nani used to give us on hot rotis with ghee.”
“Hmm… unrefined sugar… ghee… both rich in calories.”
“Oh, just eat the darn thing,” I exclaimed, wielding my parental authority. “I brought the pralines all the way from Savannah just for you.” I have never met a teenager more reluctant to eat the things we adults crave but perforce abstain from!
We split a praline and talked about his International Relations and Macro Economics classes. We spoke about his new friends, who, like him, are not hard-core, impractical, over-zealous liberals. We wrapped up the evening on a lighter note—the possibility of a new hairstyle. Something non-traditional and cool!
The next day, the rain gave way to sunshine, and we walked around Harvard Square. There I spotted a celebrity of sorts. Cornel West, a professor and an expert commentator on CNN, was walking briskly across the quad. “Oh my God, that’s Cornel West!” I tugged at my son’s arm excitedly.
“Seriously! Mom, stop it!” he shook his head in embarrassment.
An edgy haircut later, we drove back to his campus. I hugged him one last time, hid my tears from view, and bid farewell. “Drive back to Atlanta a different way,” he suggested. “You must see the New England fall colors.”
[Left] Sprightly rainbow arch over a gorge in upstate New York
I was eager to walk the Freedom Trail and visit Boston Common before leaving, but the rain started back up, and the traffic was a nightmare. I left the city and drove forty miles south to see the famous Plymouth Rock. The rock was, of course, just a rock, but it is the history that it symbolizes which makes it a compelling visit.
My spunky Kia cleaved through the beautiful landscape of New Hampshire. What would I say to Bernie Sanders if I bumped into him at a gas station, I wondered. Perhaps I would ask him to share his favorite Bernie’s mittens meme!
For lunch, I stopped at a roadside deli for a fresh lobster roll, a Maine specialty, and headed towards Vermont. I imagined barrels of maple syrup for sale at gas stations. Driving along a gently cascading stream, I asked Siri to play the song Zindagi Ka Safar a few times over. Sidestepping the existential queries instigated by the pensive lyrics, I trained my eye on the splendid surroundings.
Along the way, I made a few detours to see several covered bridges, including the bright red West Cornwall Bridge. The encircling foliage was a canvas of vibrant greens and deep browns, bright yellows and ruddy reds—leaves as beautiful as flower petals.
By the time I reached Buffalo, New York, it was dark and brisk. I braved the gusts to visit Niagara Falls. Red, blue, green and white lights draped the surging waters. I had seen the falls during the day from the Canadian
side—which the Canadian’s claim proffers a more beautiful view—but this was a spectacular display that one must not miss.
For dinner, I had to have Buffalo chicken wings since I was in Buffalo! The dish is said to have been created by the co-owner of Anchor Bar, a restaurant in Buffalo, when she cooked leftover wings in hot sauce as a late-night snack for her son and his friends. The spicy wings tasted way better than the kale confetti I had eaten with my son the previous night.
I took a break from listening to Shantaram—the death of a loveable character made me sad. The Mahamrityunjaya Mantra always brings me peace of mind and goads me to seek pleasure in non-monetizable purpose. One hundred and eight chants later, I jumped forward to the next book in my Audible queue. Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert is an autobiographical journey of the divorced writer who travels the world to make peace with her demons. Perhaps this road trip was my Eat, Pray, Love expedition of sorts.
I headed south through Ohio’s Amish country: Walnut Creek and Sugarcreek. It was just like the movies! There were carriages on the roads and men with long beards and black felt hats. The women wore solid-color long-sleeve dresses and bonnets.
Kentucky was up next, and KFC was my first stop. I sent my son a picture of all the fried chicken I was about to eat—he responded with an emoji which I deciphered to mean “bad, bad, bad choice.”
I am not a whiskey drinker, but I had heard about the Kentucky Bourbon Trail from a friend. The Buffalo Trace Distillery in Frankfort is much like the distilleries I’ve visited in Ireland. While I did not drink any of the whiskies at the tasting, which was part of the tour, I did sip a delightful cocktail: root beer with a splash of Bourbon Cream.
I spent the night in Frankfort and headed back to Atlanta through Chattanooga the next day. As I passed Kennesaw, it struck me that I forgot to eat Boston cream pie in Boston! I suppose I will have to make the trip again this fall!
[Top] The author takes in the scenery around the West Cornwall bridge, Connecticut.
Author of Kismetwali & Other Stories, Reetika Khanna is an Atlanta-based freelance writer who likes to spotlight people with purpose. She has worked with ELLE as a senior features writer and an associate features editor with ELLE DÉCOR, Mumbai. For more, go to ReetikaKhanna.com
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