There are people who pack a bag because they have to, and then there are people like me—people who have been quietly packing imaginary suitcases since childhood. Travel has always had a little corner of my heart, probably tucked somewhere between a road map, a bag of snacks, and the sound of tires humming down the highway.

When I was a kid, we vacationed the way families did back then—with wonder, a little chaos, and probably not nearly enough seatbelts. We had a motorhome for years: a big blue Condor II that felt less like a vehicle and more like a rolling kingdom. In the 1970s, everything about that kind of travel felt new and young and wide open. To me, it was adventure with curtains, cabinets, and the promise that somewhere down the road there would be something marvelous to see.

At this age and stage of life, there are two places outside the country that still call my name. Ireland is the first. It has lived in my imagination for as long as I can remember, all green hills, stone walls, misty mornings, and the kind of music that makes your heart act like it knows the words even when your mouth does not. I have felt a pull toward Ireland forever, as if some part of me has already been there and is just waiting for the rest of me to catch up.

Canada is next on the list, especially the dream of riding the Canadian railroad through the countryside. I saw a documentary once, and apparently that was all it took. One minute I was watching mountains, forests, rivers, and endless sky roll by on a screen, and the next I had mentally bought a ticket. There is something about that wild frontier beauty… the quiet, the vastness, the sense that nature is still very much in charge. That makes my soul smile and sit up a little straighter I anticipation.

Then there are the places right here in this country that keep waving from the map like old friends I have not met yet. Maine is one of them. I want to see the coast, wander the woods, and eat lobster there—because if you are going to dream of Maine, you might as well dream properly and include melted butter.

Vermont calls to me with its trees, mountains, countryside, and those seasons that seem to paint everything twice—once in color and once in memory. Washington State calls too, with its forests, coastline, islands, and trees so tall they make you feel wonderfully small. Oregon has its coast and cities, and California has its own kind of magic. Honestly, the whole West Coast sounds like one long invitation. Maybe I could even hike a bit and catch a glimpse of Bigfoot.

I want to see Montana and feel the vastness of it, the kind of open space that makes you breathe differently. I want to visit the Great Lakes region, where water looks big enough to have secrets, and maybe even take a curious little look for Champ, the legendary creature of Lake Champlain. Some people collect magnets. I apparently collect possible monster sightings.

The Grand Canyon is another place I would love to see—to stand at the edge and peer into that vast, ancient space, probably saying something poetic like, “Well. That is quite a hole,” while secretly being overwhelmed by the wonder of it. I would love to take a Mississippi River cruise aboard a steamboat and watch the world drift by at a slower, sweeter pace. And Alaska—oh, Alaska—maybe on a cruise, maybe beneath the Northern Lights, certainly surrounded by beauty too big to behave itself.

Now I add Chicago to my list, too, because the Obama Presidential Center has become a new bucket-list place to see and experience. Some dreams arrive early and stay for decades; others come along later and quietly say, “Make room for me.” So, I do or my heart has.

Truly, though, I am a nature lover at heart. State parks, national parks, coastlines, forests, mountains, rivers, creeks, canyons, and quiet roads all call to me. They do not shout. They whisper. They remind me that this world is full of beauty, rich and natural wonders that God created, waiting patiently for us to slow down long enough to notice. And maybe that is what travel has always been for me—not just going somewhere, but being reminded that wonder is still out there, just beyond the next bend in the road.