LIFE | TRAVEL
My World Almost Squeezed Into A Backpack
Even though I had to wrap my socks around my memories to close the zipper
Planet Earth, contrary to a rather popular opinion, happens to be an utterly unbelievable planet to live on.
Over the last five years, I’ve changed three countries and five cities. At first, it felt exhausting to pack the bags and move, unpack them and then pack them again later. But it was my choice to untie myself from a certain place and embrace what is now called “digital nomadism.”
However, first and foremost, it helps me write.
Maintain the ability to look up at the rooftops and ignore minor discomfort, as well as try to embrace cultural differences, instead of comparing them to your place of origin. That’s been my go-to for fitting everywhere and biting this endless doughnut of creative inspiration.
Some might call it a form of escapism, running from daily routine, chasing something ephemeral, surreal even. The truth is there’s no escape from routine. Even staying in a small apartment in Giza, fifteen minutes walk from what is considered to be the greatest of World Wonders, I still had scheduled calls, six hours staring at the screen, and three same breakfast options I grew to enjoy.
Allow me a quick mental detour. The Great Pyramids are great, but if you are looking for a truly unforgettable experience, go straight to Luxor. I promise it won’t disappoint. That is exactly how I pictured the Nile River while reading Agatha Christie.
Getting back to being a world dweller — I enjoy every moment of it.
This said, recently I’ve been feeling a little down, failing to pinpoint the reason for being on the move. I know it’s just a phase. Even writing this, I find comfort in knowing that, a year from now, I’ll be enjoying another city, trying my best to fail miserably at explaining what I want at the local market.
This feeling of uncertainty came after some of my friends found their perfect spot. It always happens spontaneously, one day you plan a trip and the next thing you know, they open a coffee shop and take extensive language courses. When we discussed their decision, they told me it was hard for them to travel too much. Unlike me, their life doesn’t fit into a backpack. This metaphor wasn’t meant as an insult, quite the opposite — encouragement and praise for my exquisite packing skills.
Unintentionally, I began wondering if there was a spot for me. I love Istanbul and Madrid with all my heart, but I can hardly picture myself spending five or ten years there. And yet, an unwelcome thought crawled its way into my bravely rejecting brain.
My friends now have a place to hang their hats. I have a house with a hanger.
Are we, as a species, designed to fit our world in a backpack?
It certainly is liberating to some extent. What’s not to like? You throw your stuff and hand the keys to the host, leaving another place behind to boldly go. Again, it helps with writing.
But every once in a while I dream of a cozy, messy place filled with books, notes, speakers, peculiar furniture, and unsellable, worthless paintings that I made to fulfill my suppressed desire to become a second Picasso.
Some of us find our roots early, and most of the time, these roots are strongly intertwined with our relatives, friends, favorite places, and dear memories. Being lucky enough to have all of the above, I never truly felt rooted anywhere. As an introvert who grew up among extroverts, I tend to be easygoing. That is, if every once in a while I can find some personal time and throw a solo party with invitations sent only to chocolate muffins and sci-fi TV shows.
Perhaps some people are trees, and some are cars. Move a tree, and it might not survive, eventually drying out and suffocating inside new terrain. Leave a car in a garage for too long, and the rust begins to chew its wings and doors while air leaves the tires.
I am comfortable being a car in this metaphor, unless it’s, God forbid, a Fiat Multipla. But when I think that my world fits into a backpack, even the phrasing feels sad and pitiful. How about I twist it a little?
All I need is always with me.
And the sun shines a little brighter through the clouds.
I know I’ll never become truly native anywhere, but it’s not as scary as it sounds. Come to think of it, a native is just a local with a certain birthright. And I do believe you can become local with some effort. I came up with a little anecdote about the definition of a local, and it fits in this short sketch of my recent thoughts.
A pilgrim and a nomad walk into a bar. Immediately the bartender says, “You two — out. Locals only.”
“Excuse me, sir,” says the pilgrim. “How did you figure we’re not from here?”
The bartender nods at an empty place, “Look around. Locals know it’s a shitty bar.”
This feeling of unbelonging is temporary. Yet, I can’t hide some sweet sorrow about missing my roots. Perhaps this is what makes us human — the ability to share both happiness and sadness with the world around us.
If you enjoyed this story, you can always follow me for more. Maybe somebody will even give you a cookie. Who knows, the world is full of surprises!
