This morning I woke up at four-thirty in order to come back home to Arkansas after spending the lion’s share of this last week in Tennessee on a travel writing trip. Holy crap, y’all–four-thirty is not my finest hour. It was all I could do to pour a cup of coffee and pour myself into the mini-van that took me and another journalist to the Nashville airport at five. Even with the addition of caffeine, I was moving with all the agility of a three-toed sloth as I navigated airport security then went in search of breakfast.

If I haven’t explained it before in writing (and I don’t think I have), travel writing is a job. The way it works is that a business–usually a local or state tourism department–contracts with a public relations (PR) firm in an effort to promote their product (in this case, a particular area of the state and its included businesses). Then the PR firm gathers journalists from around the region or country, flies them in, arranges their lodging, and busses them around to various and sundry restaurants, activities, and tourist attractions, many of which donate their food or service in exchange for exposure. The understanding, of course, is that the journalists will write an article for their respective publications based on their honest experience. To be clear, there’s absolutely no pressure from the client or the PR firm to include every business visited or activity completed in your story, nor is there any pressure to say or focus on something specific. Indeed, many travel writers ONLY write about beer and wine or outdoor adventures, and some ONLY write personality profiles (like, about a local craftsman or artist), although they experience MUCH MORE while on “press trips.”

Here’s a picture of our group from this last week (along with some of the trip organizers/sponsors), minus one journalist who left sooner than the rest of us. Our group included writers from Virginia, Texas, Kansas, California, Minnesota, Alabama, and Arkansas (me).

I say all this for context, since someone watching a travel writer’s social media posts could easily get the idea that it’s all fun and games (look at me on the lake!) and that there isn’t any work involved. But there is work involved–it’s up early every morning, and then it’s go-go-go. And whereas a short hike and a glass of wine with a reasonable meal sounds like a good day and absolutely nothing to bitch about, travel writing is all of that IN EXCESS. Yesterday we visited two state parks, a beer festival, and a privately leased lake. Two days before that we visited three wineries and one state park. At each stop, someone wants to share their story. So you have to pay attention. You have to remember names. You have to cultivate relationships. Even when you’re tired or your back hurts, you have to be pleasant. Then later, you have to sit down and sort through all your photos and notes, not to mention the six-inch pile of pamphlets, brochures, and business cards you’ve been handed throughout the week and miraculously managed to cram into your already overstuffed suitcase. Eventually you have to somehow make sense of the whole mess. Long after the good times are over and your memories have faded, you have to write a coherent story.

This is us working–taking pictures–at Standing Stone State Park.

Here’s a picture of the area we traversed this week, the Upper Cumberland in Tennessee. The Upper Cumberland is between Nashville and Knoxville. Every pink highlighter mark is somewhere at least part of our group went. Every circled city is somewhere I went personally. Reasonably, a person would visit one or two cities in a week. Maybe three. If I counted right, I visited thirteen. This is why my brain is currently mush.

All that being said, I’m not grousing; TRAVEL WRITING IS FUN. This last week I got to experience half a dozen state parks and many, many good meals that I never would have otherwise–essentially for free. The entire time, I only paid for one thing–a glass of wine (because alcohol, as a general rule, isn’t included with meals.) So that’s pretty fucking great–five days of lovely lodging, five days of being chauffeured around, and five days of adventures and excitement–all expenses paid. As they say, it’s nice work if you can get it.

So get this shit. After five days of the royal treatment, this morning at the Nashville airport I had to pay for my own breakfast. Like, my waitress brought ME the ticket and wouldn’t let me leave until I’d reached into my wallet and given her fourteen dollars and eighty-seven cents (plus tip). The nerve!

Harumph.

This was a serious reality check. A definite departure from Fantasy Land back into The World of Normal. As if that weren’t enough, on my first flight I ended up in THE MIDDLE SEAT (I HATE the middle seat) between TWO DUDES, one of whom was TWICE MY SIZE in height and girth and–I think, technically speaking–took up his entire seat and twenty-five percent of mine.

Just before the plane took off, I texted my friend Marla, “What did I do to make Jesus mad?”

Marla said Jesus was doing me a favor, easing me back into the life of living with my parents and watching Days of Our Lives.

Folded on top of myself and starting to break a sweat, I thought, This is the lord’s definition of easing?

Since this guy had the aisle seat, for two hours I tucked my elbows into my ribcage and leaned toward the window–into the other dude’s space. Now I’m pretty sure I have scoliosis. On top of that, this man (who did seem nice, by the way) FELL ASLEEP, which meant–because I’m a Southerner and didn’t want to disturb him–that I couldn’t ask him to stand up so I could use the bathroom. Which I really needed to do.

So I just held it.

This was ANOTHER reality check. Today’s proverbial fly in the ointment of this last week.

That Jesus–always looking out for me.

Now it’s 11:35 at night, and I’m home and settled in. All told, it took nine hours to make it back to Fort Smith. My Dad picked me up from the airport, and after we went out for Mexican food (I had to pay for that too!), I came home and took a three-hour nap. When I woke up, I unpacked and reorganized my things. This process took two hours, since I went straight from house sitting to this travel writing trip and therefore had multiple suitcases to sort through. Then I started laundry. I’m on my last load now. With any luck at all, I’ll be back in bed within thirty minutes, will sleep through the night, and will wake up tomorrow morning ready to face reality and whatever new adventures come my way.

Ugh. Even if I have to pay for them.