We Love you Florida, oh yes we do.
Those are the slightly altered lyrics to a song we used to sing at Camp Kon-o-Kwee back in Pennsylvania when I was a bonny wee girl. And so they’re apt once again. I’ve just spent a week at a conference center for journalists and am returning home with that same old verklempt summer camp feeling as when I was thirteen.

I learned a ton about my craft this week, more than I could communicate in several posts here, but I always come away from intense group-travel experiences with most of my gooey feelings aimed toward the other people in my group. Adventure tourism bus venture to Mexico a few years back: There were sights to see; cities with rich histories to explore, and I partook in these activities (“partook” - a word? Hmm).

But when I flew home, my head was ringing with the voices of the folks who had become my traveling comrades in those six weeks. And now: same thing. It’s only been a week, but through all the intense sessions and conversations over our jobs and our stories and ethics and favorite rock and roll bands – I feel most intensely, once again, about leaving these fine, fine people as we disperse to our corners of the nation. I thought the summer camp intensity of this sort of experience would dissipate as I grew older, but I’m nearing thirty now, and I felt like crying earlier today. Maybe it’s just time I got used to it.

Licensing Cutesy.
And I come back to find this out: The Flying Biscuit is becoming all a-franchised. Geezle. My first experiences with this nouveau southern cuisine all-day-breakfast joint were when I first moved to Atlanta. Fresh from college, everything about urban Atlanta felt artsy and edgy to me, including the FB.
Since then, I’ve come to the following conclusions: Their coffee is terrible. By pitching one of their biscuits onto someone’s head from a balcony, you could easily kill him. Their service is miserable. It’s too loud. But I still dig their Love Cakes.

And when you’re preparing to move away from a place, all of life’s swirling carnival seems to take on an egocentrically symbolic turn. I realize this, but still, I say: This feels like a sign that it’s time to leave Atlanta.