For me, home is not a physical place. For most of my life “home” was a specific destination, sure, but not anymore. It was the comfortable shelter that I returned to after work every day, woke up in the same bed each morning, and snuggled up on a couch that fit my body just right. I cannot say that I don’t feel somewhat nostalgic of these days — the smells, the local “go-to” spots, the familiar faces you see each day while out and about. But there is a lot to be said about living on the move and embracing being, well, homeless (technically speaking). Now home is really just a state of mind. In fact, getting stuck in a redundant routine, something that once brought a sense of security, makes me feel more uncomfortable than being a nomad.
I like waking up everyday and having no idea what will happen, who I will meet, or what city I might be roaming off to that week. I like having friends and family all over the world, and being able to acclimate to just about anything. Home, for me, is not a place at all, but a feeling. It is being inspired by your surroundings, and comfortable but never stuck or tied down. Home is in hugs and cuddles having the ability to find your place in whatever environment you find yourself. Home is in pictures and memories and those random thoughts that warm your heart, move you enough to draw tears, or randomly start laughing out of the blue.
Last week home was in a very rustic cabin upstate with two owls named Hootie and Woodsy, the neighboring deer, and a couple of stinky cats. My office was a lounge chair on the porch. This week I am in the beautiful Nomo Hotel in Soho living it up in a plush suite in the sky. Just 10 more days and my plane will be touching down in Paris, where I will be living for the next year, at least. I plan to travel Europe and find a new home in every town I pass through. Not going to lie, this amazing Manhattan suite I am writing from will be a hard one to leave (highly recommend!), but I am excited for the many new adventures that await.