train

Photo by Michael R. Morris

A large map of the world, plastered with clusters of brightly-colored sewing pins, hangs in the home of 73-year-old Myrna Towers. Each pin marks a place that Towers, her husband, Dave, or one of their six children has visited. Myrna and Dave have traveled extensively, and have lived in Great Britain, Cambodia, and Hong Kong. What the map does not show, however, is where they have slept on their travels. A cabin on the African savanna, a chateau in the Alps, and a hut in Mexico are only a few. “If you stay in Best Westerns everywhere you go, you’ll have a very typical trip,” says Towers. They are always on the alert for rare lodging opportunities.

Only my sheer terror could distract me from the excruciating pain I was experiencing. I was only six years old, was alone on a train, and was hardly able to breathe because I was surrounded by strangers. And my fingers were stuck in the train door—the result of my impulse to reach for my father when I realized he wasn’t going to make it onto the train with me. Looking out the window, I could see that he was getting further and further away.