So, I finally moved out of my parents’ house again, thank God!
…Only problem is, I kinda sorta left without making any actual plans.
Like a job. Or a place to stay.
So I guess that makes me homeless.
Having no home is one thing, though. Taking your home with you wherever you go, that’s quite another.
I’m reading a book called “A House Somewhere: Tales of Life Abroad”.
(Picture Courtesy of Goodreads)
It features a collection of famous travelers like Pico Iyer, Isabel Allende, Jan Morris and Paul Theroux.
Instead of gushing about the amazing adventures of globe-trotters, these people end up finding “home” in a foreign land.
But it’s funny how different the process is for everyone, and what their perception of “home” is.
Some of them rely on family or a lover to connect them to a new place, others fall in love with the culture, the food or the view.
And still others find that by creating their own space, they can fit in anywhere.
As I settle into a long-stay hotel for a few weeks, I have to wonder, how I define “home”?
Maybe it’s not a place, or a group of people you feel safe with.
Maybe, like freedom, it’s in the state of mind.
When I get homesick for different countries, it’s not just the people or scenery that draw me, but the memory of finding a sense of peace and belonging in an unfamiliar place.
Just call me Gypsy!