Waking up this morning in a hotel room in the depths of Columbia, South Carolina, I was embraced by a splendid woman, this new face and space in my daily existence since we first crossed paths a few weeks ago at a Widespread Panic concert in Saint Augustine, Florida. She was in Savannah, Georgia, this past weekend for a Billy Strings show and it was decided to rendezvous.

Why not, right? Why not just throw a few items of clean clothes into my travel bag, crank up the engine of my truck and head down Interstate 40 and I-26 to Columbia? She’s in the area and wanted to hang out again. Me, too. Fill up the gas tank and book a nice hotel in the state capital. A steady foot on the accelerator and a slight kick in my step en route to an unknown Sunday night.

While waiting for her at the hotel, I went down to the lobby bar and watched the final round of the Masters golf tournament on the big TVs. The establishment was packed with folks, all eyes glued to the screen as Rory McIlroy won his second Masters in-a-row (fourth golfer to ever do so). And very quickly, I noticed how everyone within earshot had a British accent.

I started chatting with the guy next to me. He was from an hour north of London and was in town with the rest of the large English group for the Masters. They had just spent Saturday at the course cheering on McIlroy, and were now on their way to the Atlanta airport to fly back to the United Kingdom. For this evening, they would be sipping cold suds and clapping loudly each time McIlroy got a par or birdie. More cheers with the big win.

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Soon, she rolled up and joined me at the bar, herself now engrossed in the match itself with my newfound international friends. Onward to dinner, which was simply getting dressed and walking out of the hotel for a stroll in search of delicious happenstance food on a day when most of the nearby restaurants were closed until Monday or Tuesday. No matter, for sustenance was found at the Monterey Mexican restaurant just around the corner. Guacamole dip, quesadillas and pints of Michelob Ultra. Sold.

Head to the Art Bar closeby for a nightcap. Christmas lights strewn over the counter. Indie-rock echoing out of the speakers. And more English dudes holding court all the way around the establishment. Hearty conversation ricochetting between the two of us about what each has been up to since parting ways in Savannah a couple weeks ago. Excited banter about meeting up later this month at MerleFest and what acts we’re looking forward to watching onstage: Alison Krauss & Union Station, Blackberry Smoke, etc.

Nearing the midnight hour, it was quiet conversation back in the hotel room, old reruns of “Seinfeld” on the TV. Heavy eyelids and joyous vibes. By the next morning, it was a scrumptious breakfast at the Park & Lady restaurant in the lobby. Completely surrounded once again by those British chaps who were gearing up to head back across the pond in the coming hours. Strong coffee, drippy eggs and yogurt parfaits. More jovial banter.

Before she headed back to Florida, myself to Western North Carolina, there was time (we were in no rush) for a stroll along the Congaree River splitting West Columbia and downtown. The midday sun was getting quite hot, as per usual in these parts. Thankfully, the riverwalk hosted ample shade with a tree canopy covering most of the trek. She spoke of summers as a kid growing up in Baltimore and Connecticut. I delved into similar territory, of summer trips with my family to the coast of Maine or those first journeys out West early on.

Time to hit the road. Back to our respective lives. See you soon, my dear. Roll the windows down in the ole truck and let the warm breeze swirl around you, the sounds of Link Wray’s seminal 1971 self-titled album spilling from the stereo (track down this record asap if you haven’t heard it before): “Jukebox Mama, dancing all night long, shaking up everything, a right old jitterbug.”

In an effort to find a place for a quick jog along my way home, I ended up wandering into Joanna, South Carolina. No dice on the trail, but I cruise by one of the most stunning 19th century brick homes at the corner at Whitmire Highway and Stomp Springs Road. It was truly mind-boggling to see such a magnificent structure abandoned, and apparently for many years. And yet, it remains. It’s right off of I-26 and well-worth the in-person admiration. I even did some research on it, where it was stated “to be a place Confederate President Jefferson Davis rested as he fled south from Richmond in the waning days of the [Civil] War.”

Cross the state line into North Carolina. Up to the River Arts District in Asheville to finally get that run in. Three miles of glorious sweat under the waning late afternoon sun. Trotting along the ancient French Broad River, it made me extremely happy to finally see a lot of movement in several lots that have remained empty and dormant (and with many unanswered questions) post-Hurricane Helene, construction vehicles and human beings working hard to revitalize this beloved section of the city.

And finally, a moment to sit and catch my breath, to immerse myself in the pure gratitude for the past 24 hours. Heck, for any hours, minutes and seconds that I’m able to wander and ponder, to interact and dive deep into the endlessness of our vast, awe-inspiring planet and greater universe.

Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.