I have felt the home country – the false country – falling behind me. I wonder why I didn’t take to the road sooner. Though, in all fairness, I did head out many times on voyages that lasted three weeks or fifteen years.
The difference now is that then I was leaving some place, something I called home. I still believed I had a home somewhere that I was going out from, a place I was leaving behind.
Now, the road is my home. It is a big place.
If, like me, you have admired gypsies and wanderers and hitchhikers and vagabonds and hoboes and you have always wanted to leave the place you were stuck to and go off with them, then it is because they are already inside you, you are one of them and sooner or later you must go.
There are two types of people: those who stay and those who go. (You should pay close attention to the things you admire to recognize which one you are.)
Wandering from place to place and having no place that is more my home than any other, I throw myself into the people I meet with a new intensity. On this latest tour Mt. Shasta, Portland, Boise, Boulder, Cedar Rapids, Chicago, Washington DC and now Leesburg, Virgina are seared into me with a fiery intensity.
There is something about this life on the road that disperses the fluff and chaff of daily life and all you are left with is the people in each place. I listen to their stories, submerge myself in their lives, love them.
Wandering, I have met many people who do not recognize just how fortunate they are – and a fortunate few who do.