I didn’t travel as a child. My world extended only as far as my aunts’ houses

It was my Aunt Ev, my father’s younger sister, who first took me somewhere else. She lived in Buffalo and one day decided that my cousin Sally and I were going to Canada. She packed us into the car, pointed it north, and we were off to Niagara Falls.

As we traveled over the Rainbow Bridge, I remember her turning to my Uncle Roy. She gave a small, conspiratorial laugh, smacked her lips and said, “I can already taste the Molson’s Ale.” Proof, if any were needed, that she was a Mooney—born, bred, and utterly unapologetic.

And for me, that moment, crossing an invisible line into another country felt exciting and adventurous. And proof, too, that wanderlust often begins not with grand plans, but with a car ride, a bridge, and an aunt who knew exactly where she was going and what she wanted.