June marks three full months of wandering. May took me to eight towns or cities across four states. Here are some moments.
One of my most vivid memories of camp last year is of Joybubbles, who, during the talent show after-party in the tea yurt, got up to deliver an impassioned, impromptu speech about bravery.
I stayed two nights last week at an Airbnb in South Berkeley, a looming purple house just off of Ashby Avenue, separated from the road by a dense thicket of vegetation. It was cheap, around $45 per night. I was filling space between six days of catsitting in the city and a weekend trip to Arizona. The listing touted a “hostel-like” experience, five rooms for rent in a shared space. The hosts, M. and A., were responsive and detailed in their communication. I was hopeful.
There are a few words commonly used to describe how I am living. Depending on who you ask, I am “nomadic” or transient. Footloose or bicoastal. Remote. Home-free. All of these words have their own connotations but are, generally speaking, apolitical.
Perhaps one of the most heart-wrenching discoveries of adulthood is that people, even our closest friends, don’t, as it turns out, think about us all too often.