I like traveling alone. Not that I’m going to do it any time soon.

But I like getting on a bus or a train or a plane all by myself. Traveling, between my to and my from, I’m no one, I’m anyone. I’m anonymous. Having no home is liberating. All my critical stuff in a knapsack packed safely away. Some bare toiletries, perhaps a book, a few articles of clothing. I am nothing more or less than what I’m wearing and I can be anybody I want.

I could be an insurance salesman, an appraiser, a bingo enthusiast, an international scrabble competitor, somebody’s dad. And, nomadic, roaming through space, I could meet anybody. Stuff is a crutch. A home is sometimes a cave where scared animals cower and hide. A mortgage is a commitment to a single space.

The life of a nomad. Are there any nomads anymore?

I used to be an urban nomad. And I played my stoplight game. With no destination in mind, I would follow city streets and, at crossroads, take whichever stoplight was green. And, not often, it’s true, sometimes when I passed the train station and had nothing else to do, I would buy a ticket to wherever I could afford. But I was a chicken, too, - a slave to my house and my life -, I would of course buy a return ticket.

SS