Chapter I: Loss is a fundamental part of traveling; people rarely tell you that.
If you stay put, you might have a happy life, you may avoid hardships. Your life very well may avoid all the road blocks and problems that come with relocation. But if you never move, you will remain an incomplete person.
It's something to accept - when I'm broke, when I'm sick, when I'm uncertain how far away from normalcy my next detour will take me - that every path leads to regrets, if I allow it to. I don't know how this one is going to turn out.
My home is where I rest my head at any given time, my home is any stop along I-70 or any town where a friend will share a drink with me. My home is the United States.
I'm gradually acclimating to the idea that I will still be here for a second autumn, winter, spring, summer...
The bartender poured me another beer and shot of whiskey and casually asked: "What are you going to do with the last 5 percent?"
Moving to Brooklyn was not easy. In fact, it was by far the hardest apartment search I have ever conducted, far worse than Boston or Chicago. That should have been no surprise, but I was just not clued into how much more difficult it was going to be. We're talking exponential levels of difficulty. Let me tell you all about it.
With exactly one month until my New York City year begins, 9 years of traveling, moving, working, writing and living are coming to their payoff.