Is This How a Nomadic Addiction Ruins Your Life?
Being nomadic has never scared me that much
I was waiting for my chicken wrap at a local eatery in Perth the other day. Bored, I decided to look around. People left as soon as their takeaways were ready, whereas I chose to dine in. Why?
As a nomad, you typically don’t have a routine in a new location. And the people around me certainly led busy lives and had no time to pay attention to a gypsy like me. People in some places are interested in and happy to talk to strangers. But not here.
I’ve had a terrible diet here. My holiday house has no kitchen, supermarkets are surprisingly farther away than they appear on a map, and I don’t have a local driving licence to rent a car. I ended up with that chicken wrap that night because I’d chosen a too-pricey country to go to. It happens. As a nomad, you may cheat on your homework and pay for it later.
I know I should’ve chosen a proper central hub, but I didn’t.
My stuff is spread across three countries and five cities. And I have no idea where or how to bring all of this together. Maybe I don’t need it any more? But I really miss my tweed jacket and hiking outfit.
I can’t remember the last time I went to a doctor or dentist I trusted. But places change so fast that I don’t have the time to think about new ones.
In the new place, I can’t live the way I used to. The time difference is too big to work with the US or Europe. And my visa doesn’t give me the ability to work in the country. People say I must volunteer and make connections to be able to find a job later. Maybe in 2 or 3 years. I feel trapped by the possibility of being stuck in one location with no income for months or years. By the time it might occur, I will have turned 40… And it’s so expensive to travel with just my savings.
My people are somewhere far away. Sometimes people and I just find each other. You are meant to be together, you can read each other’s minds. And sometimes you get stuck in a conversation that means as much to you as a fallen leaf. Should I force myself to replace my people, no matter what the cost?
I’d tried to talk to the locals. Very busy locals who were telling me about oil and gas, business certifications and precious corporate culture. They wouldn’t be impressed with a weird necklace from a Rasta Thai village or relate to my struggles with overly passionate neighbours in Georgia who wanted to fight at 5 a.m.
I was offered the chance to settle down in the new place. And I can’t picture myself here.
How can I force myself to care about the things that these people care about? How do I find meaning among these rules? Is it a real compromise to be someone’s housewife in a new place?
Maybe I can. Maybe next time.
Just one last adventure.
I wonder if this is what a nomadic addiction looks like.
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