Do nomads live where they are or not?
It's a tough question. It's a limbo. A fire made me reflect a lot on this
In my first nomadic months, I used to say with great excitement: "I'm living in Budapest, I'm living in Buenos Aires, I'm living wherever I am; after all, I don't have a home." More than a year later, however, that's not quite how I feel. Today, the feeling is more of limbo, as I mentioned in the previous edition.
It's not that I don't feel good where I am —on the contrary. Just this year, my Airbnbs in Montevideo, Porto Alegre, São Paulo, and now Santiago were great, and I immediately felt at home in those spaces. I feel like a local on the days I spend there, usually a month.
But in the long curve of life, when looking in the rearview mirror, I don't feel confident saying "I lived in Rome." It was 27 days. Even though I felt good, nothing in that apartment is mine. From the sheets to the pots in the kitchen, I didn't choose anything.
Not to mention that you don't have to keep moving all the time if you live somewhere. Even worse, as I once complained, I hate spending money on fabric softeners and laundry detergent with every move, which are not easy to carry around.
But it was in the Pigneto Airbnb in Rome that I paid "my rent." Almost all my life was there. Having a routine-filled life, working and going to the gym, only adds to the list of "that's what living is."
I feel even less like a tourist, a word that causes me a particular aversion. Contemporary tourists live to fill their Instagram feeds with photos and videos showing how happy and successful they are at the fanciest restaurant in Paris.
That's why the limbo. Perhaps a "slow traveler" or a "fast local" (I don't know if that exists, but I just invented it) comes closer to what I am.
In the end, this terminology issue doesn't matter much. Life goes on, whether I'm living in each place I am or not. I'll be there and create memories there, and that's enough.
The fire
Saturday, April 6, 2024, 10:30 pm. I open a beer and step out onto the balcony of my apartment in Santiago. Suddenly, a firetruck. Two, three, four. I look ahead more attentively. Holy shit. A major fire three blocks away. The fire had reached some shacks in a village of immigrants from other South American countries. Many people lost everything.
It was strange; I felt a bit like I was in the final scene of Fight Club. The flames grew and turned smoke-darkened, the number of firefighters and viewers around increased, and I watched it all from the front row.
As I drink my beer, I reflect on the title of this edition. If I'm passing through the place, my chances of witnessing more local events decrease. From the moment I spend 32 days in the same place as it will be in Santiago, life happens beside me. A block fire.
Have a good week, everyone.
Very interesting reflections.
I recently came across the term "slowmads" , a combination of "slow" and "nomads" which might fit what you are describing.