“The mountains are bigger here.”

It came out of my mouth before I really had a chance to think it through. Of course the Appalachian mountains are bigger than the Blue Ridge. It’s a statement so obvious that to even bring it up is something a bit stupid.

But it was true. We drove through Kentucky on our way to a conference in Cincinnati, and the road wound through the valleys between mountains a thousand feet high. There was something in this that I hadn’t known before, despite my familiarity with the Blue Ridge foothills.

I haven’t done a lot of traveling. Most of my vacations have been long trips to Texas to see family, and once I went to Rome on a school trip. I’ve lived most of my life in Central Virginia, Lynchburg specifically, and I know it like the back of my hand. I can list off my favorite country roads, my opinions about the food places, the neighborhood dynamics, the traffic patterns, the local issues, and the coffee shops. One of my favorite things is showing my college friends all the things that make Lynchburg great—all the places and people that I know.

And then I leave Lynchburg. And I’m a stranger.

I’m very bad at being a stranger. I know a lot of people like traveling, but it just makes me feel a little lonely. Maybe it’s because I didn’t go off to college like most people. I stayed in the same town with a lot of the same people. I’ve never had to learn another city. I’ve always been an expert.

As we wound our way through Cincinnati this week, I imagined what it would be like to live in a Midwestern city. I tried to figure out the economic situation (the Macy’s was closing—that seemed like a bad sign). I tried to get a guess about how the locals live. But all I could manage was guesses. I knew nothing about the city, and after spending three days in it I still knew nothing.

But there are people who know Cincinnati the way I know Lynchburg. They know its corners and neighborhoods and backroads and highways. They know the people there, they understand the dynamics, they have memories grounded in the sidewalk.

And for a little bit, we were in the same place, yet at the same time, we weren’t in the same place.

We’re driving back through Kentucky and West Virginia right now. This is a whole new kind of traveling, one of just passing through. We’ve passed through hundreds of mountain communities—they have odd names and run-down houses. I’ve tried to imagine their lives too. Where do they work? Where do they eat? What do they do on the weekends? And before they can answer any of those questions, we’ve already driven through.

Someone knows these towns like the back of their own hand. And we just drive through.

The mountains are bigger here. The snow stays a little longer. There are creeks that can only be crossed by one-lane wooden bridges. A lot of things are different here. And I won’t ever really know them.