I loathe car rides. They’re horribly unpleasant. My knees and elbows get very stiff and there’s very little mobility for me to stretch, pop my joints, and find release. It is torment.
I hate a hot sun glaring in my face, having to deal with a cramped space and a squabbling family, and absolutely no way to resolve anything.
We’re very stubborn. No one is willing to listen to another. It can get very difficult for those of us not involved to avoid screaming some scorching remark about the complete idiocy of the argument, and for the others it’s utterly humiliating to sit in a hot car, stiff, tired, and unable to defend oneself.
But somehow, in a masochistic way, I love travel. Not the process of getting to and fro, that’s a complete bloody drowning screaming nightmare–especially the packing process and actually moving from place to place–but actually being in a new place, being able to smell and taste and look at stuff that is different from home: that’s wonderful. Every place I go leaves a new mark–however, there are some places with which that mark is “Oh, please, never make me even think of that pit of torture again.” But most of the time, it’s pretty positive.