Sometimes I see workspace views from other writers and feel envious. The beautiful window scenery – maybe an Amsterdam canal or the picturesque Scottish green. These writers have their books stacked perfectly, their maple-scented candle burning. I imagine them getting up at dawn to make their routine coffee or tea of choice, and sitting down in their aesthetic room in their comfortable desk chair with their perfect routine and getting it done. This perfect idea of the creative life, the writers’ routine, doesn’t at all coincide with my lifestyle.

I write these posts from bus stations and torn-up couches in hostel communal spaces. I write sitting alone at restaurant tables and from the bed of a messy room. I write in my pajamas and my fancy(ish) dinner clothes. In the morning, at night – it doesn’t matter. Whenever I have time. Sometimes I wonder if I’d be a better writer, or a better creative in general, if I had a more obviously balanced life, a stable routine. But then I remember that I wouldn’t have much to write about if I pursued stability. 

I keep going, so I can write about learning how to sew my clothes instead of buying new ones (I currently have a pair of green pants, a black cardigan, and my bedtime shorts that need some TLC). I can tell you all that nothing goes to waste here – I’ve been squeezing out the last drops of my Bulgarian toothpaste for a few days now, and I do the same with my hair conditioner. My sentences can include my disheartened feelings I have when a sock goes missing, because I really liked those ones, and I don’t even know where to get socks in Dahab. I can ask you, have you ever worn damp clothes on your walk outside because the drying rack is taking too long and you know the sun would do the job?

I’m learning to shower quickly in questionable bathrooms with low water pressure or a broken heating tank. There was no hot water available for my weeks in Wadi Rum – if I wanted a chance, I’d have to time it between 2:30-4:30pm and hope the sun was hitting the water tank just right that day. When I left the desert, I’d never appreciated a simple luxury more in my life. I’m getting used to Google Maps being correct only half the time, and wandering around like a half-crazed idiot asking locals who may or may not speak English if they know how to get somewhere. It is a great thing to be so familiar with a place that you don’t have to do this. 

My head is full of calculations. So many calculations. 1 kilometer is 0.6 miles, so this math runs through my head many times a day: If half of 8 is 4, plus a little extra, 8 kilometers is 5 miles or something like that. I can’t seem to fully grasp what a kilometer actually is in distance. A little over two laps around the track? I don’t think I’ll ever understand meters to feet (1 meter is 3.2 feet…why?). Kilograms to pounds (1 pound is almost half a kilo, which I guess is easy enough). I think I’m okay with Celsius to Fahrenheit, until I’m thinking about what to wear outside and my weather app says it’s 58°F and I have no idea what that is in Celsius. According to Google it’s 14°C. I really don’t think I’ll ever get it, but at least mental math skills from elementary school are sort of serving me well!

For me, an always bittersweet aspect is making instant friendships that live entire lifetimes within 72 hours. Maybe a week or two, if I’m lucky. They always start with exactly the same Where are you from? How long have you been traveling? conversations that are had with anybody I come across in hostels or volunteer houses. Clicking with someone, and doing everything together for the time you’re allotted before one of us is onto the next destination. Keep in touch, knowing damn well you’re going to text for a few days until the communication abruptly falls through the cracks. I hope to see you again, knowing that’s likely not going to happen. Though, sometimes it does. Good luck with everything.

My life is a culmination of the most beautiful and fulfilling chaos. It’s the fear of losing my passport that never quite goes away, but knowing with precision where it is at all times. It’s spending a large portion of my life in common rooms with people who were strangers yesterday, sharing laughs and card games like we’ve known each other since middle school. It’s picking up words in random languages – I can sing the alphabet in Russian, say thank you in Thai, goodbye in Khmer, more tea? in Arabic, and one sugar please in Turkish. But of course I’m fluent in nothing. 

Since I was young, all I’ve ever wanted was a life like this. And I’m grateful everyday to live it. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss my own bed, my cats, my favorite mug, even a gym routine. Missing milestones back home is hard – birthdays, celebrations, and bad news. The world keeps moving, right? These experiences have taught me so many invaluable lessons. I’ve learned how to face minimalism with a smile, and I see right through the consumerist culture we’ve all been taught. I now know how to embrace routines and stability – these things I used to be afraid of. I believe in the goodness of humanity, no matter what the media feeds us: people are good. In the future, I’d love my own space. Somewhere I can wake up at dawn, look out the window and smile, then start writing. But for now, the bus stations and messy rooms are my windows. And I smile.

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