There is something about being in a vehicle for nearly 14 hours…. with two dogs, one cat, and one other human…. in Fourth of July Weekend Traffic….. that really does something to a person.

Not really a “bad” something… Just “a” something.  It changes you.

The typical psychological fixations and obsessions begin to occur, really.  Conjured word definitions.   Hallucinations.  Increased Appetite.  Ability to recall lyrics to all songs from the 1950s to present day….  and sing them loudly.

And it doesn’t just happen to one person in that particular car, truck, or van…. no.  It begins to affect all individuals, man and beast alike.

I call it Travelopathy…. also known in certain circles as Voyagitis.

You know you have reached the apex of the neurosis…. when you both order the same exact fast food meal…. down to the extra pickles…. and then for the next 57 miles, do a side-by-side critique of the Wendy’s Single with Cheese.  Not only do you thoroughly examine the cuisine at hand…. upon completion……you feel quite satisfied with your dazzling assessment of this burger and fries combo.

Other phenomenon take place.  You set a way-point as your “next stop”…. and when it gets within a hundred miles…. you say “Hey, we are getting pretty dang close.”  Oh, I like a good gallivant as well as the next Joe.  But when you start playing 20 questions, or the Volkswagen “Red One / Blue One” game… you know the Globe Trotting is better left up to that snazzy basketball team from New York.

Yes.  The effects of the trauma are far-reaching…. yet… when you pull in the driveway… they all seem to disappear.  Vanish….. Evaporate.

And all you can see are those ruby-red slippers clicking together….  and your heart begins to say…..
There’s no place like home.