by a guy who should’ve known better, but somehow keeps saying yes anyway
Just before Thanksgiving, my girlfriend visited me in Richmond, VA and convinced me to spend the holiday with her in Houston — or as I prefer to call it, hell with excellent barbecue. One minute I was enjoying the crisp Virginia air, the next I was saying yes to being marinated in Texas humidity. We planned our trip, and naturally Georgie, our pint-sized companion, was coming along. With two humans on dog duty, a plane ride seemed easy.
And then, two days before departure, my girlfriend dropped the bomb:
She didn’t want to fly anymore.
She wanted us to drive.
Almost two thousand miles.
“It’ll be fun,” she said.
Let me tell you something about that phrase: it’s never uttered before sensible activities like reading or folding laundry. It’s the battle cry of people who jump off cliffs with GoPros strapped to their chests. Right before skydiving, cave diving, bull running, and other activities specifically designed to thin out the human population. But sure enough, I agreed.
First order of business: a rental. There was no universe in which my British car — all style, no stamina — was making this journey. That vehicle is built for turning heads, attracting compliments, and breaking down at charming historic sites or the middle of a busy highway. It promises performance the way politicians promise change: loudly and without follow-through.
So I went to see Chuck, the rental car guy. I told him I needed something roomy but not a full size SUV (fuel economy and guilt), fast enough to outrun any Alabama-based nonsense, and comfortable enough for survival.
Chuck pondered my request as if selecting a car that would determine the fate of the free world. Then he started listing models. Too many. I froze like a kid at Baskin-Robbins facing 31 flavors, all capable of giving sugar highs in different ways.
Sensing my crisis, Chuck summoned Antoine — the resident oracle of all things on four wheels. Antoine took one look at us, squinted like a man reading the future, and said:
“Rogue. Definitely a Rogue.”
That was it. No pause. No uncertainty. Just pure prophecy.
So we took the Nissan Rogue. And as much as it pains me to say it, the thing performed flawlessly. Not glamorous, not inspirational — but steady, reliable, and surprisingly heroic. Like a lunch lady who saves the school from a gas leak.
We headed west, then south, then west again — Virginia’s mountains, fields, and rolling landscapes greeting us with the same soothing scenery for miles, the air getting more southern by the hour. Lovely at first. Repetitive soon after. The kind of view that makes you appreciate coffee.
Then came Tennessee — where the Bible Belt officially begins and confusion becomes a lifestyle. It’s a land of grand contradictions: “Hell no” to abortions, “bigger hell no” to social programs, and “absolutely not” to universal healthcare. They adore babies but apparently lose interest once the babies grow into adults with needs like healthcare, food, or dental insurance.
Billboards screamed:
“JESUS IS WATCHING.”
And two signs later:
“COME WATCH OUR GIRLS AT THE HAPPY DANCING POLKAS GENTLEMAN’S CLUB!”
A moral roller coaster if there ever was one.
Churches everywhere, rivaled only by adult stores. And just when I thought we’d seen it all, there it was: The Everything Trump store. Merchandise, flags, shirts, hats, possibly a shrine. Tennessee doesn’t just like him — they treat him like he’s Elvis, Jesus, and Dale Earnhardt combined.
Alabama appeared next — Tennessee’s flatter, heavily wooded twin with slightly fewer financial resources. Clean though. Surprisingly clean. We even passed a sustainable tree farm, which was the most environmentally friendly moment we’d had since leaving Virginia.
At a rest area, we spotted a monstrous pickup truck with a decal saying it was “Powered by Jesus.”
I admire the confidence, but if Jesus is now doing carburetor upgrades, humanity has truly gone off the rails.
This is also where our GPS, traitorous thing that it is, rerouted us down a long, dark, rural road that radiated ghosts, vampires, werewolves, and — worst of all — Alabama rednecks with suspicious hobbies. Then a car started following us. For what felt like 50 long miles. I told my girlfriend, very calmly, “Oh look, someone else is on the road. Maybe a cop.” Meanwhile, inside my skull, every survival instinct I’ve ever had was screaming. With my soul probably writing a last will and testament.
Could it be a serial killer? A moonshiner? A man with a chainsaw and nothing to lose?
Was he calling his buddies?
Was he waiting for the perfect spot?
I was sweating like a sinner in church but maintained my façade of calm dignity.
When we reached the interstate again, we finally lost him. We both exhaled like we’d just survived a horror film. Turns out she’d been imagining the exact same thing: like the opening scene of a Netflix documentary. Perfect relationship synchronicity — united in mutually assured terror.
We stopped at a hotel and ended the madness for the night.
Mississippi arrived with the same landscape as Alabama, but in daylight it looked less like a potential murder location. Smooth sailing, no major incidents, except that it was Mississippi.
Louisiana greeted us with the famous 19-mile Atchafalaya Basin bridge — a long stretch of road floating above swamps full of creatures waiting for someone’s bad luck.
Then came the refineries — towering metal kingdoms lit up like industrial Christmas. Beautiful in a gritty, “this definitely shortens your lifespan” sort of way.
And then… the traffic. New Orleans traffic.
Good Heavens.
It was like the entire population woke up one morning and decided to drive at the same time in the same place for no reason. Baton Rouge wasn’t any better. It was a parking lot with gumbo. Louisiana needs more roads. More lanes. More bridges. Possibly tunnels. Maybe an underground railway system. Honestly, at this point, they need aviation.
Finally we hit Texas. We were on the highway when a giant Tahoe came roaring up behind us at what must’ve been Mach 2. This thing wasn’t driving — it was charging at us like an angry rhino. It swerved toward the lane next to us, changed its mind, cut in front of us, then jerked into another lane — all this nonsense just to overtake ONE CAR. One. A single vehicle.
My life flashed before my eyes. Georgie’s too, probably. And the thing I will never understand is why some people drive like they’re trying to win a race nobody else is participating in. I guess humans do not share the same level of brain functionality.
After all that, we finally reached the house. I dragged myself inside, collapsed on the nearest soft surface, and slept the sleep of a man who had cheated death in three states and survived rednecks, swamps, billboards, refineries, and a Tahoe with violent intentions.
And that was our Thanksgiving trip.
Almost two thousand miles of chaos. Giggles. Stories from the past and future plans.
One dog.
One girlfriend.
One Rogue.
And absolutely unforgettable undertaking wrapped in the disguise of adventure.
Would I do it again?
…Probably. Just don’t tell her.
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A Kings 
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