Having been raised north of the Mason Dixon Line, as an innocent college student even in the late 90′s in the South; I think I harbored somewhat of a misunderstanding with regards to southern culture. At the time, I think I referenced my surroundings mostly in stereotypes and movie lines. And I was almost too busy experiencing it all to take very many pictures.
Flash forward more than a decade (yikes) and taking pictures has gone from being my hobby and great love, to being my job and great love. As I returned last week to the stomping grounds of my late teens and early twenties, I found a South largely unchanged. Instead, it was my understanding of it which had changed. It was my appreciation for it which had grown over the years I’d been gone. I can’t put into words what the South means to me now. All my lackluster writing skills mean nothing when emotion is the ruling factor. This time though, I took pictures. And this time; I listened, watched and tried not to judge – but instead, to celebrate. I celebrated both the stereotypical charms of the South and some which are perhaps, lesser known.
This is my trip back.: My trip to Little Rock, Arkansas 
and Memphis, Tennessee 
I’m one of “those Americans” who has always dreamed of Paris. Until fairly recently that dream of Paris (and yes of the French countryside as well) dominated any and all travel thoughts I had. Late last year, due to a chance encounter on twitter I was finally given the chance to expand my horizons. With a trip to the Riviera Maya area of Mexico on assignment, I finally discovered that no one place can satisfy all of my wanderlust. However great France may be, it is no match for the intense sense of adventure that drives me day to day. In fact, no one place is.
