As a kid, I used to love going to get the Christmas tree. My parents would trundle my sister and I up in matching coats, scarves, mittens, and boots and caravan with my aunt and uncle and their dysfunctional brood to some remote, windy, hill top farm to cut down our respective Christmas trees. My cousins, sister, and I would run from one tree to the next, each one bigger than the last, proclaiming this tree to be THE TREE.

My idea of a vacation is to see everything worth seeing in a 50 mile radius of where I touch down. If there is a battlefield, a winery, a museum, an amusement park, or something completely weird and random like a park composed entirely of 18 foot tall busts of American Presidents (get your mind out of the gutter), I’m there and then some. So much so that when I get back from vacation, I’m usually more tired than when I left.