Posted on October 27 2020
I recently had a birthday, and as you all know, Facebook is very keen on bringing up old memories just when you think they've faded... this particular memory that popped up was from a birthday dinner in 2014. A bunch of us were sitting around a large table at a restaurant in San Diego. And while I looked at all the faces in the photo, I realized that even though this is only 6 years ago; there is only one person at that table that I am still in touch with. All the other people were friends, of course, but friends that were passing by.
Or, to be correct; friends that I was passing by. Like a breeze.
Ever since moving to the US twenty years ago, I have moved. And moved and moved and moved. I have only lived in three different states but at least ten or eleven different zip codes. And I absolutely LOVE that I have made friends and acquaintances in every place I have lived, but it also shines a little sad light on a life as a nomad.
And I think this birthday dinner is a perfect example. Usually, one would celebrate their 37th birthday with family and close friends. But just like my other 19 birthdays celebrated in the US, I had neither around me.
New to San Diego and no family around, I instead celebrated with random friends and coworkers. And no, there's absolutely nothing wrong with that - at least I celebrated and I remember having a fantastic time and I loved hanging with all those people. But in hindsight, it makes me a little sad. Because it makes me realize that I was always a little sad on birthdays. Birthdays and Christmases, midsummers and Lucia, and aaaaall the other celebratory days when you are supposed to have friends and family around.
Like a wind, I have passed by hundreds of friends and coworkers, acquaintances and people I only knew by their dog's name. But not many people really really close. Like those friends you grew up with, or your own family. Not even close.
Life as a nomad.
Lately I have thought a lot about what happens when you move to a new country where you don't really feel at home, but you still stay for two decades. Half of your lifetime (so far). What happens when you spend every minute of every day thinking that you should really be somewhere else? When you don't ever live in the present, because you are too busy living in the past, or dreaming about the future?
This Facebook memory of my 37th birthday made me think of life that has been. Of all the people that have crossed my path during my twenty years in the US, or who's paths I have crossed. Because they are still there, and I am not. I flew by their paths like a wind, and maybe I made a mark, maybe I didn't.
But it definitely made a mark on me, and I am thinking I should write it down. Life as a nomad.
Next part will be called The Beginning.