I’m a little astonished to realize that I have been without a house of my own for a year now. It’s a most remarkable thing while simultaneously feeling completely normal.
In the past year, I have been on fifteen airplanes, five trains, eight shuttle buses, six taxis, four tuk-tuks, one elephant, one boat, and too many motorbikes to count. All adventures, every last one.
When I think back to all the beautiful places I’ve slept, I am convinced that I’ve gotten away with something. Do you ever experience that? Like there must have been some mistake, like you’re going to get found out and have to give all the prize money back. Many of the beds I’ve slept in I’ve paid for (never over $25/night, most $10-$12), some are the beds or guest beds of friends and family. This year’s beds have been hard and soft and gritty and divine. Some of them made me really grateful that I brought my silk sleep sheet to South East Asia. But most of them have been splendid, and some downright luxurious. Since last June, when I moved out of my house in Austin, I’ve slept in a grand total of Thirty-Three Beds (yes, I counted). And a couple of benches in airports. Oh yeah, and two sofas. I am beyond grateful to the beautiful people who have housed me during this year of vagabonding. I felt the net beneath me that so many of you provided during my flying around. You know who you are, angels all.
I’ve probably posted several of these already:
By this time next month, I’ll be in my Very Own Bed, which, incidentally, belonged to my great-grandparents.
All my love,
p.s. I can’t believe I don’t have a photo of the best bed of them all: it’s like sleeping on a cloud in the blue room at Grandmother’s.