PENSACOLA BEACH, Fla.—The feeling of free movement never gets tiresome to me. I get behind the wheel of my van and I still believe I am driving into an America with open arms and a compassionate heart.

A couple days before Thanksgiving I made a three-hour detour from north Florida to see Bob Dylan and his band in the Walt Disney Theater of the new Dr. Phillips Center for the Performing Arts (locals call it “The Dr. Phil.”) in downtown Orlando.

The concert was not part of my book agenda, but I needed to see this modern day American hobo. The couple on my mezzanine right were long time Orlandoians. The outgoing gentleman told me it was his wife’s birthday and she did not know where she would be going for her birthday surprise. He was 74 years old. They held hands throughout the concert.

The gentleman on my left was older than me and he wore a black and white Bob Dylan truckers cap. He had a full and round jovial face but didn’t say much. After Bob schmoozed through “Full Moon and Empty Arms” under a soft golden spotlight, the gentleman laughed and said, “Man, I’ve been seeing this guy for 50 years.” And he continued to laugh.

It was the next to last night of Dylan’s tour. I’m reading the Springsteen autobiography in and out of this trip. Bruce writes, “Bob Dylan is the father of my country….Bob pointed true north and served as a beacon to assist you in making your way through the new wilderness America had become.”

Deal.

So many of my musical heroes have passed this year I figured I had to drive south to get to this show. As usual my connection with his material stayed with me a long time:

Dylan’s reworked honky-tonk version of “Blowin’ in the Wind” played well on my morning drive through the Florida Panhandle. I’ll remember the bluesy “Highway 61 Revisited” for the way home when I camp in the parking lot of the Big Ass Bass Pro Shop at the Pyramid in Memphis.

His spritely take of “Tangled Up in Blue?” Obviously a nod to life in my Blue Bird Van. And the torch standards like “Why Try to Change Me Now” and “Autumn Leaves” were songs made back when America was great.

I have put more than 17,000 miles on my van while traveling across America since early June. I knew subjects would come easy. People on the road in camper vans, motor homes, and Airstream trailers are off the grid for diverse and unusual reasons. But they have found their place in America’s open arms.

I wanted to come to Pensacola Beach for the 4th Annual Thanksgiving Potluck at the Pensacola Beach RV Resort. Heading to South Alabama had more of a ring to it than spending Thanksgiving in Key West or Fort Lauderdale.

In the span of a few hours  I met a 30 something traveling physician from Michigan and her family, an author from Minnesota, two female singer songwriters who left their home towns to get married in Florida and two Hollywood actors/stunt men and their girl friends who are traveling in a vintage Airstream. They got stuck in Pensacola Beach over the summer because one of the stunt men broke his neck diving off a pier. He never thought he would work again but he already is. He showed me his long scar, smiled and then offered me a tropical drink.

There is an Esprit de Corps among us in RV parks and campgrounds. Should something push you one way, you find another way. A lot of people are smiling in these places.

It is Thanksgiving night. I’ve seen residents decorating their RVs with Christmas lights. Families are watching football on outside television screens. My van is parked on the shore of the Santa Rosa Sound. The Gulf of Mexico is behind me. I can look out my open cargo door and see stars dancing across the bridges that bring people to this small barrier island. Bridges always bring people together.

The Minnesota author and I were discussing the ups and downs of traveling alone. I love being able to call an audible like heading to a Dylan concert or seeing the Red Grooms  exhibit in Memphis.

Of course I’m lonely right now. Why else am I writing this? I could be having Thanksgiving drinks and seafood at a fine Pensacola Beach establishment like Bamboo Willie’s. I have a portable turntable with a copy of “Blood on the Tracks” and I have yet to play it. You want to know how lonely looks? The RV park rented me a bicycle built for two to so I could go by myself see the iconic UFO house in Pensacola Beach.

But as I’m learning through the people I’m talking to, bold choices can take you to unfamiliar places where singularity allows time for reflection. You adapt. Getting there is being there.

The essence of America is not found in majestic towers, cable television news and fancy hotels.

It is here, where people are living deep on the road, zigging and zagging and finding their center—which is always true and forever free.