From Charleston, it’s about two and half hours to Tybee Island.

Day 2 of my round-country road trip, and I’m already off course.

Instead of driving to see my sister in Atlanta, like I’d planned, I’ve come here, entirely because yesterday someone said, “You haven’t been to Tybee? You’d love it!”

I am gluttonous for new experiences, willing to look for home down any road.
Also, I love islands.

Do I love Tybee? It’s hard to say.
It’s January. The beach has construction (?).

Cafes are closed, and three days isn’t long enough to meet anyone, not really, not when I barely even see anyone.

I take myself out to dinner—shrimp Caesar salad with Sauvignon Blanc, dockside, while the sun sets over the Intercoastal. 

Despite being empty, this place is surreal.
Signs say:

“Venomous Snake Nesting Area.”

“An Inn for the Imagination.”

“U.S. highway I-89 – my other end is in San Diego.”

San Diego. I’ll be there before I’m home. (Even not knowing where home is, I know I’ll see San Diego before it.) 

This much is clear: Tybee is not my place.

It’s a relief, actually. After Charleston, I worried, “What if I want to live EVERYwhere?”
At least I can rule one place out.

Which means it’s time to get back in the car, and drive.

✨ Have you ever taken a detour that ended up showing you something you didn’t know you were looking for?

💜 💜✒️ That’s the kind of thing we explore in The Memoir Circle, a monthly guided writing group for women working on their memoirs.