No Permanent Address

There is something addictive about everyday getting up and moving on,

Leaving everything behind, the baggage of yesterday’s experiences and last night’s dreams,

And starting out anew.

It’s an irresponsible way of life, a free life.

In this mode of existence, a day is a long time.

You arrive in a new place and confront the unknown. The simple tasks of finding somewhere to eat, of orientating oneself to the new surroundings and finding out when and where the next bus or train leaves becomes an odyssey, a journey into the unknown, a minor epic full of frustrations, unforgettable scenes and comic situations.

After a day or two, before you know it, comes the feeling of familiarity – the feeling that you know this place too well, that you have been here for a long time.

The senses become dulled.

You see less, notice less.

You begin to regard your hotel room as ‘home’. Before long, the strangeness of arrival, intimidating, exhilarating, mysterious, fades.

In its place comes the comfort of living according to a set of small routines.

Then comes the creeping ennui, the listlessness, the feeling that you have too much time on your hands – and then it’s time to move on again.

There’s something addictive and exhilarating about always being a stranger, a pair of eyes wandering an immense foreign landscape, someone who is always arriving and never stays.

With no permanent address.