As a kid, I never traveled anywhere. My parents would go away sometimes, but they never took me along. I was only on a plane once before the age of 20. I was sent alone to Florida one summer to visit my grandparents for a week. I still remember exiting the plane and being hit in the face with that warm, humid and aromatic tropical air. An unfamiliar yet quite exciting experience. To this day I am still very conscious of the smell, temperature and feel of the air of a new place as I deplane.

The first real trip I ever took was a cross-country drive with my friend Tom Vincent. I was around 20 years old and I wanted to take pictures and do a road trip in the spirit of Jack Kerouac. We did not have a car so we decided to do a one way car delivery: that is where a person pays a company to have their car delivered to some far away place by professional drivers; I was the professional driver.

It was a Fiat Convertible that needed to arrive in Denver, Colorado within five days from the time the car was handed to us. The hope was we would get it there in time and undamaged to collect the generous tip from the happy car owner on its arrival. I think our compensation from the company was a full tank of gas and the right to use the car as our own transportation to get us two thirds of the way across the United States. There are a few good stories I could report during that 7 or 8 day trip (which would include not receiving a tip, and in fact were reprimanded for being late) but, there is something much more important that I learned on my first adventure on the road.

During this trip, I realized that I wanted to be a photographer and travel the world. I wanted to stay in motels and drive on every back road I could find. Actually, I never wanted to come home. The plan became be a photographer. There was no Plan B… and there still isn’t one.