Like most Americans, I began driving when I was 16. I bought my mom’s car when she got a new one, and I found myself with a 1996 Plymouth Acclaim. I drove to high school and back, to parties and to work. I sped and got tickets, and I bumped against enough curbs to lose all of my hubcaps. When I was 18, I sold my car. And unlike most Americans, I didn’t get a new one.
In two weeks I’ll turn 28, marking my ten-year anniversary of being car-less. I’ll admit, when I’m cyclying to work in the blistering heat or pouring rain, when I’m walking home from the grocery store with my hiking bag full of food weighing down on my shoulders, and when I want to visit my friends who don’t live in the city, I glance at the passing traffic wistfully.
So why don’t I drive? Because I’m a travel junkie. Continue reading