My maternal grandfather grew up in a village in Kerala, but within him was an endless curiosity for the world and everything it had to show him and tell him. It was no surprise, therefore, that he always found a way to travel. Despite his humble beginnings, his unrelenting spirit of discovery took him all over Europe, parts of Africa, the Americas, and across India. Oh, the stories he could tell you.
When the time came, my mother took on the mantle. She and my dad travelled often in their early years as a married couple — mostly for work. And as soon as I was old enough to be on a plane, I was on one.
My dad would sit in his easy chair all his life and travel vicariously through NatGeo if he could — but Mamma? Her blood coursed with the same insatiable curiosity for the world that her father had instilled in her. She raised my sister and me to fall in love with movement — to live on the move, to not merely vacation but to collect stories in the brilliant colours of evergreen memory. She raised us to hunger for everything the world, and our country, had to offer.
Oh, the stories we could tell you!
The world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page
St. Augustine
The Big Smokey Apple 