The problem with growing up in my household was that the households consistently changed. Those ugly big brown moving boxes started showing up in my memory at the age of four and are pretty much the only memories that I still have of my childhood, my brain strangely locking away everything else. Every couple years we would pack up our belongings and head to a new home, a new city.

Seattle. Small town Connecticut. Dallas. Even smaller town Connecticut. Atlanta. Same smaller town in Connecticut, again. New Hampshire. Michigan. New York City. Stamford. New York City. Boulder.

The string of what I call home grows longer and longer until I no longer know which of those I can safely call home. New York City was by default my home of six years but never felt like home. Neither has anywhere else really. Home? Is the road. It’s the airport where flights arrive and depart. It’s my backpack where the bare minimum of everything that I need in life can fit. It’s my flipflops that walk me everywhere. It’s the wind in my hair. It’s the sunglasses that I will break every three months. It’s the insatiable itch to be on the go, to see new places and plan new trips. Settle down? That phrase is not in my vocabulary.

I also believe that everyone can travel, no matter your budget, your age or whether or not you think you can. I am here to show you that it’s possible and to answer any questions you may have regarding travel and to tell you my ridiculous stories of my adventures on the road. Trust me, if I could have gotten a degree in Shit I Cannot Make Up But Yes It Happened To Me, I would have double majored in it and then got my Ph.D in it. It would have been a lot more useful, and potentially more lucrative, than the design degree I decided to get.

I am an eternal nomad on a constant search to define what home means to me, all the while planning my next big adventure. Oh, won’t you be my neighbor?

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