Out of the wild, domestication blues

It’s been a relatively inordinate amount of time since that fateful day you saw your hand, seemingly subconsciously, exchange a piece of paper to a uniformed employee, delivering you from one existence to the next. To your loved ones, it seems as if enough time has passed for you to have acclimatized. The honeymoon period is over. You have rekindled old flames, while letting others permanently lay to rest. You’ve scavenged through your pre-travel possessions, went to places you used to frequent, and finally found a “job,” that’s got you back on the “path.” For all intents and purposes, it seems like you have rediscovered your native footing. But for you, even if months have passed whose sum may be more than years, fully processing all you have seen, heard, felt, and devoured is not an easy task. Much like times irrelevance while globetrotting, how long it takes to ever fully process your journey is a subjective matter. 


For myself, I’m nearing the one-year anniversary of being back in the states after what seemed like a lifetime away. I can tell you with full honesty there are still days where I feel I’m relearning to walk. Where certain aspects of the day-to-day have gotten easier, others seem as if they are more foreign than the landscapes I was frequenting not so long ago. I still feel ferrel. Actions that seem completely normal will render me weird looks or comments, affirming that even if you try to assimilate in full, somethings will never change. Life here moves so fast, yet attaining an upward mobility seems be stuck with a dial-up connection. I may not speak for everyone, but I would be surprised to hear that others who have left for extended periods of time haven’t come in contact with similar phenomena upon their return.


A few weeks after I came home, I wrote about my experience with the honeymoon period. I remember missing the things that would seem obvious: close friends, travel romances, unabashed behavior, absolute freedom. While those are still regulars in reoccurring daydreams, it’s the smaller aspects I’m starting to yearn for. It’s the waiter at my favorite duck joint in Chiang Mai who would talk to me about Thai politics when the restaurant was slow. It was the street kids in Kolkata who, after endless hours of hustling, saw me in the streets and joined in my daily exploits just for the hell of it. It’s the produce lady in the market in Bali who wouldn’t let me purchase the delicious fruits of her labor unless I counted the money in Bahasa or Balinese. It’s all these small memories, which may have been overlooked while they elapsed, that are deeply missed. Much as travel changed drastically after the initial jolt faded, so do our needs and desires as time from last exposure expands.

As a believer in synchronicity, I found it fitting that I spent my nearly one-year anniversary in the last place I stopped before I came home. The circumstance in which I visited this time couldn’t have been any different. The people whom I traveled with, the places that I stayed, and the activities I engaged in all were of a completely different journey. For all that differed though, both trips found me at a crossroads. Both trips saw me hoping maybe this trip would render a romance that lasted longer than the travel. Both saw me trying to demystify a path that still is obfuscated. Both trips, so beautifully, illustrated a definite progression, as well as a confusion. Both trips provided a firm reminder that no experience is wasted if we allow it to shape us.


I may not know how long it takes for someone to return from the wild, or for that matter, if those who have experienced freedom can ever be domesticated. What I do know, though, is that there comes a point when each returnee is faced with a decision. Is this home where your heart is, or is that yearning for times passed enough to move you to action? After the honeymoon is over, does this new life satiate you in full or are you still enticed by the omnipresent desire to wander with the wind? 

Photos courtesy of author and friends 

Does a home base make you less of a traveler?

The image of a vagabond is pretty straight forward; disheveled, full backpack, tattered clothes, sun kissed, wandering. While all these descriptives do justice to a portrait many long-term travelers like to identify with, does this small paradigm truly describe what traveling should look like? Does one have to adopt a minimalist approach, living out of what fits in a backpack, and never staying in one place too long, to really be a “traveler?” Do drifters and tumbleweeds have to renounce the idea of a base or bed to be drifters and tumbleweeds? Maybe it’s just me, but I think that trying to encapsulate the idea of exploration in a simple checklist may be a misguided approach.

I’m sitting now at a desk a friend gave me. The black, functional, yet tried and tired office item is in a townhouse I own, in the state where I was born. Today marks the one week anniversary of me being stagnant in said state and townhouse. After about a year and a half out of the country, followed by another 4 months on the road within my land of origin, the idea of sleeping in the same bed every night doesn’t sound abrasive. actually, clean sheets and a kitchen to cook in nearly brings me to tears. While I am back in the good ole USA, does that mean I’ve sold my backpack and told the whispering wind to shove it? No, it doesn’t. In fact, this little side trip is a way to create a travel lifestyle that fits my needs.

What most of us travelers know, yet hate to admit, is that cash flow is an important part of life. Whether you are deep in the jungle in southeast Asia, or sipping some of the finest caffeinated beverages in Melbourne, money is important. The amount to which one needs and how one allocates funds is relative. On the same note, the way one finds these funds is also up for interpretation. For me, having a place that I can pay off with roommates, and also profit off of through sublets, enables me to have a small disposable income. It gives me storage space, a place to rest my head, but doesn’t nearly tie me down in a way I initially assumed. What this place does is allow me to travel and retreat based around my own terms.

One of my favorite traveler writers, Wandering Earl, wrote a wonderful piece about forgoing worry of other’s judgements. For me, I’ve come to the conclusion that as much as a dig sleeping in the cheapest guest houses, bumming on couches, and frolicking in the breeze’s navigation, I do like the idea of a safety net. I like being able to have a savings account, as well as a place to rest my head when I come home to the place and people I love. Don’t get me wrong, being 27 and shackin’ up with the parents is swell, but as time progresses, and I do in accordance, there are certain things I’ve realized are important to me. The idea of investment and multiple sources of income has become an important fixture in my vocabulary. While this new person emerging scares me, he seems to have some interesting points. I also really dig the sources he cites. I think he may be on to something…


What it all boils down to is life is about finding your purpose. For some, that purpose is to drift in the wind. For others, it is to find a career, a spouse, and a house, and live that way until the rapture.  For those of us in between, life is about creating the balance that allows you to flow, permeate, and hustle to your hearts content. I realize the people I respect most are those who love to travel, yet keep progressing. It’s the people who create a lifestyle where they move about freely, yet still delve into any culture that crosses their path. It’s those who can absolutely love slumming it in backpacker haven, then take a trip to the unknown, and still return to their home and loved ones for a jaunt in the frightening western world. Those people are the travelers whom I believe in.

For me, my current domicile in Colorado does just fine (that is until ski season comes and goes!) While I may be back in Colorado for the time being, I adore the fact I see this place as home. Travel is what one makes of it. If through your journeys you realize a home base is what you need, or at least a trip outside of your current trip, you are the only person capable of making that decision. The funny thing is, once you stop caring and actually follow that intuition, the more balanced you will feel, and the more opportunities to create this desired lifestyle will arrive.


Photos courtesy of Getty Images, Listability, and Vagabond Journey

Don’t ever underestimate the adventures hiding in your own backyard

Some nights end with an empty bed and Netflix, other's end with experiences you won't soon forget 

From all my travels, the one thing I’ve learned is that exploration is a mindset. While seeking out new and exciting possibilities may be easier À l'étranger, the truth is, there are places within your own city that still hold mystery (even you small towners!). While it has been an adjustment returning to the US, my recent trip to Baltimore reminded me that those who ever find themselves bored must actually be boring. 

After re-living my anxiety youth at a punk rock show, the buddy I had come to visit needed to turn in for the night. With deadlines piling up, I found myself with the choice to return to his place and sulk at 10 pm on a Wednesday, or explore the city alone. With a promised ride from his roommate returning around 1 AM, I decided to see where the solo night would take me. While this is normal practice abroad, I hadn’t actually done much solo bar hopping in my own stomping grounds. This seemed like the perfect night to break the ice.

After scouring  the city for awhile with no luck (apparently I was stuck between Inner Harbor and Fells Point), I found a bar that seemed to be somewhat happening. With a hope of a good time, my icy fingers pressed open the large wooden door of myth and moonshine... to an underwhelming sight of an empty floor. The kicker, though, was the blaring music wafting down from a spiraling stair case. Maybe this night wouldn't be a bust after all?

Upon summiting the stairs, I was rewarded with glorious view of a packed bar. People were mingling, dancing, laughing, and even playing Wii on a big screen. In fact, the bar was so packed that the jacked, well-groomed bartender took 10 minutes to even notice me, then another 10 to make my drink. Alas, having found a seat at the bar, and receiving my Moonshine Mule, it looked like the night was taking a turn for the better.


As I scouted the bar, I began to notice that this was a very touchy group. Everyone seemed to be either coupled off, or at least very keen to give affection. On top of that, everyone was adorned in either red or black. Before I could finish my thought, a taller, larger, blond women sat down next to me and began to chat. She opened with a small dose of flattery, and while I was somewhat reluctant to accept, she began to pry for information. She wanted to know how I ended up here, who I knew, and a slew of other questions that reminded me of an interrogation on day-time TV cop show. It was curious, so I started to play along until finally my new friend couldn’t take it. She asked me if I knew what “this,” was. With a shake of the head, my night accelerated from 0-60 in a flash.


What I had unconsciously stumbled upon was a weekly meet up for a local bondage group in Baltimore. The group recruits online, then does a weekly meet up to make sure all parties are comfortable with one another before heading to the weekend destination for what could only be described as hedonistic, unbridled, fuck fest (not my words…). The girl began to point out big players in the scene, as well as opened my eyes to many of the occupants wearing ropes or clandestine chains, woven into typical attire. One girl in particular had her favorite S&M toy tied into her bow, and would repeatedly be tugged to the ground by passerbys. As I took in my surroundings, a friend of my new friend came and outwardly explained how the entire process, as well as the “scene,” actually works. This climaxed with explanation of how there is an entire house system (think Harry Potter meets the promiscuous greek house meets Rocky Horror) which people have to bid to join. Each house has its own culture, and of course, some are in higher regard than others. No one wants to end up at the bummer S&M house on a saturday night…


I was in utter awe, and completely taken out of my comfort zone. The night was still young, but I had also reached my limit as the last sip of Moonshine Mule slowly slithered down the hatch. I thanked my new friends for the introduction, and sheepishly walked back down the stairs and into the chilly, Baltimore night. 


While I’ll always advocate for trying one’s hand at a trip abroad, the truth is that life is a long, twisting, epic voyage. Each of us has the option to fall into rhythm, visiting the same restaurants, bars, and friends, or we can continue to explore. Who knows, maybe the next time you go grab a night cap, you’ll find yourself getting whisped away by an intoxicated birthday crew in possession of free passes to a “night club,” that oddly resembles a strip joint (this may or may not have happened in the same night). Don’t let your location stop you from exploring your horizons. 

Photo courtesy of the Examiner 

One foot in the water, one foot in the sand

Some days, it is great to feel the cool, cleansing water splash against an individual leg testing the temperature of a rushing stream. The air outside is warm, and your body is moist from the humidity associated with the season’s heat. You know you want to fully submerse yourself in the flowing liquid, but you go in slowly. One foot first, followed by the other. After one foot broadcasts safety, the rest of the body joins in the fun. You may even put your head all the way under if you’re bold enough. What happens, though, if you find yourself perpetually caught with one leg in the refreshing, moving liquid, while one remains firmly planted in the sand?


For the last 2 months, I’ve been living in a city in northern Thailand called Chiang Mai. The city is known as the staging area for people wanting to explore the northern region of the country. While it boasts all the charm of Lanna culture, what it also offers is a beautiful mix of the west and the east. Amongst the busy Thai streets, one can only awe at the precision in which the two cultures are intertwined. Temples and monks are as ubiquitous as western style cafes, free wifi, and guesthouses aimed at backpackers. Pad Thai can be procured as easy as a hambuger, and the Wat Prah Signh temple exists caddy corner from a 7-11. It seems only fitting that my inner diatribe revolving around duality would come to light here.

With each passing day I come in to contact with two halves of a whole that create our existence. Be it the battle between good and evil depicted in most temples, or the separate, yet, associated existence of the rich and the poor. The world seems to be constructed of small parts that are actually the result of two distinct halves (call it the ying and the yang if you will). I’ve realized that I am no different. All things are one and all the things are equal, right? Why would my existence be any different? It is true that being a tumbleweed has its perks. My days are presented with an unrelenting sense of freedom. While overwhelming it can seem, if I want to hop on a bus, catch a flight, or just lay in my bed and read, I can do this. My free roaming lifestyle can’t last forever (damn you economics!), but at the moment, I find myself in a good spot. The fact is, though, most tumbleweeds, at some point, come to a impasse. While they have found themselves engaged in a new existence, a firm part of them still resides in a place which they call home. While they are physically in one location, remnants of their mind, body, and soul have yet to make the journey abroad. Normal, yes, but one has to wonder if living so torn is actually sustainable.

After a year or so into my travels, I’ve seen myself start to slowly drift towards one pole or the other. While I’ve definitely had stints of belief that I would return home soon, I'm nearly completely off of American news and media after watching the acquittal of George Zimmerman. But, with each step toward, I’ve also realized that my feet are no closer to meeting on either side. As things from my home start to fade away, or certain aspects of travel become less important, all that happens is the metaphorical cream rises to the top. The purpose of my travel becomes more apparent, and the people I love become even more important. I can’t tell you what the fuck twerking is or what happened at the VMAs (I did hear Drizzy killed it though), but I can tell you how much I care for those who are willing to brave the harsh reality of international communication. It may not be the most concise way to live, but as of now it hasn’t done me wrong.

Though the duality of my serrated life does weigh on me, I’ve started to see it in a positive light. Maybe there is hope for us strange few who choose to try and live in two places at once.

Photos courtesy of Training with Matt and author