As a vagabond, “home” is anywhere in the world I happen to put my backpack down, but I do have a place of my own I technically call home…
*TEN MUSEUM PARK
To nomads like myself, the word “home” is abstractly relative, but in this case it’s a technicality. I own it, my things are here and only I have access to it, so technically it’s my apartment… my home.
Yet I technically don’t live there.
I don’t remember the smells of each room, where and when the sun shines through each window, the minor signs of wear and tear or any of my neighbors.
To other long term travelers and true vagabonds, it’s not surprising but it is well understood.
The home of a vagabond is the whole world.
Like everyone else, the comfort, convenience and familiarity of home is very welcoming to me. But I prefer the discomfort, inconvenience and unfamiliarity of a new “home” here and there as I travel…
Adventurous and explorative dwelling.
It’s the vagabonding way.
Home is where I put my backpack down.