We nomads must have awful, miserable lives back home. Or we’re too strange to form lasting relationships. Or we’re children who don’t want to grow up, who desperately stay away from the real world.
As those words were constantly repeated to me, I finally realized that I had to stop fighting it. I stopped denying it. Yes, I told anyone who doubted me—you’re right. I am running away. I’d been running away ever since I first slung my backpack over my shoulder in 2006. But I’m not trying to avoid life, I’d tell my doubters. I’m trying to avoid your life. I’m not running away from the real world—I’m running away from your idea of what the real world is.
Running away from office life, commuting, and weekend errands, and running toward everything the world has to offer. Running away from monotony, nine to five, rampant consumerism, and the conventional path.
I was running toward the world, toward exotic places, new people, different cultures, and my own idea of freedom and living. I wanted to experience every culture, see every mountain, eat weird food, attend crazy festivals, meet new people, and enjoy different holidays around the world.
I realized that casting deliberate vagabonds and nomads as crazy, maladjusted, antisocial Peter Pans is just another way of perpetuating fear. It’s a way of saying “our life is the only life, and anyone who wants out of it is crazy.” And when you define people who want out of your life as crazy, you never have to grapple with the shortcomings of your way of living.
The truth is that nearly all of us need someone to define ourselves against. Maybe you’ve heard this quote from the famous French poet Rimbaud: “I is another.” What that means to me is that we all make up our own version of “I”—our notion of who we are as people, what makes us unique, what we value—by pushing off against someone else. None of us becomes an “I” without defining ourselves as something that another person is not. Other people help us to understand our own identity. If you sat around in a room all by yourself, for your whole life, you wouldn’t know much, if anything, about the kind of person you were.
But we don’t sit by ourselves in a room. We look at the siblings, parents, friends, enemies, and random strangers around us and figure out what makes up our “I.” “I’m not athletic like him,” you might say. “I’m better at drawing than that other kid.” Or, “Most kids say they like chocolate ice cream, but I like strawberry.” Or, “I can’t keep up in math class—maybe that’s not what I’m good at.”
Through hundreds of little little comparisons like this every day, we figure out who it is that we are. And as we get older, the comparisons get more comprehensive, and tend to harden. Responsible, sedan-driving adults all across America are likely to tell themselves, I’m not like one of those crazy people who picks up and moves all around the world. I’ve settled down and made a life here. It’s not always glamorous, but at least I know who I am—and I’m not those people. And, of course, nomads like me do the exact same thing in reverse. I know I have. I’ve told myself, “I’m not like all those sedan-driving normies who stay put their entire lives. I’ve explored the world. It’s not always easy, but at least I know who I am—and I’m not those people.”
I’ve been especially prone to do this when the traveling is especially hard—when someone snoring in the next bunk won’t let me sleep, when my backpack straps dig into my shoulders, when I’m burned out from one too many bus rides or cold breakfasts. I have to admit that “I’m not those people” has kept me going through some hard times. “It’s still better than home,” I’d say to console myself.
There’s no getting out of this bind. We all define ourselves against other people—it’s part of being human. No one can see what he looks like without looking at a reflection, and when it comes to our personalities and our values, other people are our reflection.
Making someone else your “other” is healthy, normal, necessary. But it can also become unhealthy. It can get way out of hand. And for me, where it gets out of hand most often is when you reach the point of treating others only as the points you define yourself against. You look at someone else—someone with a different story or a different path, a different personality or a different set of choices—and you don’t see a fellow human being, you just see what you are not. You see a defective you, a freak. Some of us become so unconfident in our choices, so dependent on mentally running others down in order to make ourselves feel like we have worth, that we stop seeing other people as anything else but as a means to that end. At the extremes, this is where racism, sexism, and all the other bad-isms originate. But even when things don’t get that extreme, it can mean diminishing other people before we’ve had the chance to understand them, just because they aren’t us.
And so, just as I probably had an unfair image of the sedan-driving normie in my head, that guy had an image of a filthy, unwashed me in his head to help him get through his day. That’s what Regular America does to mentally sustain a way of life that isn’t all that healthy—set itself up in opposition to all of the hippies, nomads, weirdos, radicals, and freaks that it is not.
But I know how dishonest that move is, because I’ve met those “freaks.” I’ve gotten to know nomads and vagabonds and people who don’t fit in at home. I knew them firsthand. And they weren’t antisocial weirdos: They were people with a lust and a zest for life, people who wanted to live it on their own terms, to soak up everything the world can offer. They were people who knew that life is short, and we only get to live it once. They were people who wanted to look back on their crazy adventures, not on their time at a desk, wishing they were somewhere else.
As for the people at a desk—well, they’re not as awful as I’d imagined them, either. I had built an image in my head that came with youthful ignorance—and that age toned down. Some of my best friends have opted for the settled life, the life of minivans, suburbs, 2.5 kids, steady jobs, and 401(k) plans. That choice is right for them. And there’s nothing wrong with choosing a rooted, settled life if you choose it consciously, deliberately.
So many of us do the opposite, though. We choose that life because it’s the only option we see, or because we’re scared out of considering alternatives, and then we spend the rest of our lives resenting our choice, because really it wasn’t a choice at all. And, in a vicious cycle, we try to dull our resentment by casting those who opt out as crazy, as not-normals.
I wanted to run away from all of that. When Thoreau said that he wanted to “live deliberately,” that resonated with me. He said that he wanted “to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.” That desire drove him to live in a cabin in the woods; it drove me to strap on a backpack and leave home. But I think the basic impulse is the same: to choose consciously, and not by default, how to spend the few years we’re given.
Few people choose to live like that, and the people who do are always bound to generate some resentment from the people who don’t. Conventions, rules, and molds are sacred to those who live by them, and they’re likely to brand those who break them, people like me, with all of the hurtful words they can think of. And when people who live by conventions, rules, and molds find themselves dissatisfied, they’ll make themselves feel better not by pulling up stakes, but by running down those who do, and wishing—just wishing—that their own lives offered something more.
Years ago there was a book called the The Secret. It was a bestseller, endorsed by Oprah herself. According to The Secret, if you just wish for and want for something bad enough, you’ll get it. Of course that message was a bestseller, because everyone feels dissatisfaction from time to time, but most people aren’t willing to do anything more strenuous than wishing it away.
But the idea that you can wish a rich and exciting life into being is ridiculous. The real secret to life is that you get what you want when you do what you want. Life is what you make it, not what you wish it. Life is yours to create.
We are all chained d
own by the burdens we place upon ourselves, whether they are bills, errands, or (in my case) blogging deadlines. When those burdens grow too heavy, we can choose to realize that almost all of them, on some level, are self-imposed—optional. Burdens are made to be thrown off. If you really want something, you have to go after it.
People who travel the world aren’t running away from life. Just the opposite. Those who break the mold, explore the world, and live on their own terms are running toward living. We are running toward our idea of life. We get to be the captains of our ships. We looked around at what normal, “well-adjusted” life had to offer and said, “No thank you. I want something more, something different.” Having seen the world, having seen there was another way to live, I couldn’t go back.
That was the freedom and attitude I saw in the backpackers who first inspired me all those years ago, and that’s why I left Boston again and embraced my place as a true nomad.
* * *
LIKE A DRUG, travel had kept its grip on me long after I thought I was done with it. And like an addict chasing their first high, it was never as good the second time around. So it was for my second trip around the world. I had gone back out to chase the high—imagining it to be a highlight reel and forgetting the ugly parts.
As I’ve said, we romanticize our trips. We remember those funny moments in hostels in Prague, on beaches in Thailand, and those nights laughing with pretty Spaniards in Florentine courtyards. We forget the long bus rides, the frustration at different cultures’ views on time or safety, or those times you got sick—all those things that caused burnout in the first place. Those moments become funny anecdotes. Tales we swap around the bar.
That’s the amazing thing about memory—it sands down the bad parts, the tedious parts, the frustrating parts, the burnout-inducing parts. And it works even when we know that that’s what it’s doing.
Back at home, in our old life, we think of all the happy memories of travel and contrast them with our boring day to day. We think of the moments we wish could last forever, and the places always seem to pull us back to them.
I’ve had those beautiful moments on that first eighteen month trip: my first stay in Amsterdam, living in Ko Lipe, Thailand, for a month, and lately, the island of Ios. In those moments, I found paradise. I found locations I still remember vividly in my mind and still pull me toward them no matter where I am in the world. I found people I connected with and who will stay with me for a lifetime.
Yet as I retraced the route of my original trip—first in Bangkok, then around Southeast Asia, then back again in Europe—I began to wonder if something was wrong with me. Because there was something missing the second time around. Something I couldn’t put my finger on. As much as I wanted to run toward life, to get out there and explore again, the reality didn’t seem to live up to my memories, or my anticipations. It wasn’t as fulfilling.
I spent time living in Bangkok again, then moved to Taipei and worked on my blog, then went back to Europe, and in each instance my time settling down brought me more joy than my time traveling.
“It’s simply chasing ghosts. Places will never be the same as they were. It’s the people that make them. You are chasing the ghosts of travel past. That’s why you’re disappointed,” Bill said to me.
Bill was a well-known travel writer. He had been in the industry for decades and I looked up to him greatly. I met him for drinks in New York City, where I had moved for the summer in 2010. I had always dreamed of having a wild summer in the city, and now with a job that gave me the flexibility to do it, I was.
Bill’s point was that we can never get that back, because we can never get the people back. They are who matter—the places are incidental.
What really made Thailand so special? It was the people I met. Ko Lipe was magical because of John and Sophia.
We all try to chase ghosts. On an intellectual level, you know a place you visited years ago isn’t going to be the same—you can’t step in the same river twice. But on an emotional level, you still want to chase that high, even if you have to deceive yourself to get going. We all want to relive that high. Put ourselves back in that memory, with all of the bad parts edited out and only the shining parts left: new friends, lounging on beaches, exploring waterfalls on hikes, a delicious bowl of noodles or a late night out.
Whenever I meet people from those times, we relive those memories together. We reminisce about the beautiful and sometimes life-changing moments we shared. We talk about going back to those places and trying to recapture those moments. But what we really want to recapture is a spot in time, not a set of coordinates on the map. And there’s no going back in time—there’s only doing what we can to make new memories.
In many ways, Bill was right. You can never relive your best memories, because the people, the situations, the environment will never be the same. Trying so hard to recapture the past only makes it worse—it slips out of your grasp the harder you try to hold on, leading to bitter disappointment.
But I was never good at following people’s advice. And, ignoring Bill’s counsel, I went back to the place that spurred our conversation: Ios.
The Greek island of Ios is a rocky plot of land with a main town growing like a vine up a pointy, church-topped hill with quintessential blue and white houses, small cobblestones lanes, and tiny storefronts. The island’s wide, yellow sand beaches are lapped by beckoning azure blue water. Small clusters of houses and terraced cliffs for wine and crops branch out from the main town. The island as a whole is a haven for young backpackers seeking to soak up the sun and to party.
My first time there, in 2010, had burrowed deep into my memory. Arriving in May that year, before the crowds, I found most of the other backpackers there were looking for work. Ios’ economy in the summer runs on backpackers working the bars and restaurants in exchange for free food, drink, and enough money for a room.
As the days and nights ticked by, I developed a tight circle of friends. There was James, the suave ladies’ man from Canada who was using his Greek passport to stay in Europe as long as possible. Mitch and Byron, who worked at one of the main bars and had come over from Australia together. Tim, another Australian who ran the beach water sports rentals, spending his fifth summer on Ios. Frances and Alice, two Scottish girls, escaping Scotland for the summer. Caitlin, a tall ginger from New Zealand with a sharp wit. These people became my core group of friends on the island. We were all travelers lured in by Ios’ party reputation, beautiful weather, and stunning beaches.
Our days fell into a rhythm: we’d wake up late, hung over from the night before; head to the beach, eat lunch, relax, talk, and, at night, congregate on Tim and James’s large roof deck for a BBQ. Each night, the gang would go over for dinner and a few drinks before they went to work. Occasionally, we’d invite other travelers to join our revelry. Later, we’d head out as a group for a bar and, one by one, my friends would drop like flies as they snuck off to work. Left alone, I would bounce between bars, hanging out with the backpackers who were passing through to binge heavily, or, unable to drink more after too many big nights in a row, simply head home to work on my blog and get some rest.
Most travelers stayed only a couple nights on Ios. They would party hard, sit on the beach, and, after a few days, stumble back onto the ferry, having checked Ios off their list. My friends and I were here for the long term—they because their travel plans depended on working and me because, having found a group of people I liked, saw no reason to leave. Staying put allowed us to create roots on a windy island where people blew in and out like leaves. Yes, there were other workers on the island, and I’m sure they formed their own cliques—but this one was ours. This was, at least temporarily, my family. Days and nights together, we chatted little about our life back home and the memories there, and we laughed about our shared experiences. We gossiped over hookups, bickered over where to eat that night, traded book suggestions, and sparred over the politics of the Greek economic crisis.
Now, trying
to re-create that high, I found myself back on Ios in 2011. I was turning thirty and wanted to go to a place where I knew I could celebrate like I was turning twenty-one. I wanted a wild party, beautiful beaches, lots of travelers, and cheap alcohol.
That was Ios.
But, thinking about Bill’s point, I arrived with a lot of trepidation. Was I just here to chase ghosts? Was I here for the destination or in hopes of refinding my tribe? Ios was another comfort zone. A place where I knew what to expect. A place where I felt I belonged. I could have spent time in a new place, but I knew I’d see familiar faces there, and that was what I wanted. I wouldn’t be able to recapture those old memories of Ios, and that was fine, because I would still have some fun with the people with whom I shared those memories.
With no small amount of relief, when I arrived the locals remembered me and invited me back into their home like I was family. One night at the hostel bar, Francesco asked me if I had any plans. Francesco’s hostel is an institution on Ios. It has been around for decades and, with its pool and close proximity to the bars, it is always sold out. During my extended time there the previous summer, I’d become close with Francesco and his wife, who found it curious that someone not working at the bars would choose to stay so long on the island.
“You have any meetings now for your blog or whatever it is?” he said.
“Nope, I was just going to talk to the people on the patio.”
“Okay, I’m going to take you to a Greek festival at the monastery in the mountains.”
“Right now?” I replied.
It was 10:00 at night. It seemed kind of late for a festival. But if there’s one thing people learn quickly on Ios, it’s that you never say no to Francesco. He has an imposing personality and is an important figure in the community. Francesco has the great ability to phrase a command as a question.
Ten Years a Nomad Page 14
