Why I chose to take the road less travelled
With the Moroccan surf roaring in the distance and a glass of sweet mint tea by my side, it’s easy to feel like my nomadic life is perfect. Today, it is.
The day my father died while I explored another city, however, was not.
All lifestyles come with sacrifices, and my sacrifices were made so that I could see the world. When you’re young and life’s promise awaits, longterm travel can be an easy choice. But in your 40s — when most everyone you know has a mortgage, family and secure future in hand — forsaking security for the great unknown is a bold risk.
When I gave my landlord the keys to my apartment days before my 42nd birthday, I had sold the leather sofa set that took me seven years to pay off. Standing before my landlord that morning, if I could have reneged on my decision to go “full nomad,” I might have. I was deeply anxious about whether I’d be tough enough for this adventure. But even greater was the fear of regretting not attempting my decades-long dream.
Since that day 16 months ago, I’ve lived in more than 30 cities, taken more than 40 flights and a dozen trains. Amazing as it is, there isn’t a week that goes by that I don’t long to share what my friends back home are experiencing, or wish I could play with my niece.
On the other hand, I get to explore the Mexican desert, road-trip through the Azores islands or listen to a bagpiper in Edinburgh.
I wish I could be happy with a “regular” life — a family, a good job — but children were never in my picture. Other girls played with dolls and called them their “babies,” but I coveted Smurfs, stories and Legos.
One-third into my plan to travel for five years, there’s still so much more I long to experience.
The nomadic life isn’t always glamour and glory. Every new shower or tub is a learning curve. Beds are unpredictable. And you really haven’t lived until you’ve crushed a fast-crawling scorpion emerging from your sink.
So why do I do it? Because how else would I know what it’s like to stand all alone in a Roman arena in Croatia on a windy November day? The Acropolis and the Parthenon weren’t coming to me, so I needed to go to them.
When I get lonely, and I do, I turn to co-living arrangements. Here in Morocco, for example, I’m lodging with 12 other remote workers fixated on living a life less ordinary.
One day, I’ll probably want a more predictable existence, like a bed of my own, a routine as comfortable as old jeans. But for now, I don’t know where in the world I’ll be in six weeks — and I wouldn’t have it any other way.