Journal #4 – Where do we go from here?

Journal #4 - Remember you asked for this: Photo of Sara Fondo at sunset on a beach in Bora Bora, French Polynesia

In this journal entry; contemplating the meaning of “home”, the consequences of being a vagabond, and being comfortable everywhere, but belonging nowhere.

The other night, I lied in bed, scrolling through Workaway opportunities in French Polynesia. “I guess, I can always go there,” I thought to myself as I came by a man’s post, offering a tent in his backyard in return for some help around the house on the island of Moorea. I wasn’t dead serious about ditching boat life; I was just fuming due to some work-related stuff, I’m probably not allowed to disclose, and wanted to get an idea of what I would actually do, if shit went down.

So, anyway. There I was, alternating waves of anger and sadness crashing in over me, when it dawned on me that I don’t have anywhere to go. Am I being a tad dramatic here? Sure, but let’s not undermine my feelings right now. When I tried contemplating questions like “where would I go?” or “what would I do?”, my brain basically malfunctioned from its inability to come up with an answer. Instead, more questions came crawling out from beneath my frontal lobes. And before I knew it, questions were throbbing on the inside of my skull like the bassline on the dance floor.

Where do you go when you can’t go home? Thud-thud. What even is home anymore? Boom-boom. Is there such a thing as too much freedom? Oomph-oomph. Will anything ever be the same? Thump-thump. Where do we go from here? Whomp-whomp.

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The Vagabond Choice

Eventually, my mind stopped pestering me as it realized, I wouldn’t have a Eureka moment any time soon. It’s all a mess; my bed, my hair, my words, my heart. My life has changed quite considerably in a short span of time, and I guess, writing now is my attempt to make sense of it. There’s still so much I have left to process, but good fucking luck doing it while living with 12 people in a floating sardine can and working 7 days a week. The closest I come to any form of healing at the moment, is taking some deep breaths behind the baby blue curtain to our bathroom, that only closes halfway, before I paste my smile back on and pretend, I’m an extrovert.

It seems as if I have gradually detached myself more and more from a life in Denmark over the past years, without attaching myself to anywhere new. Now, with a lot of my girlies buying flats, getting married and shooting babies out of their vaginas, I feel even more ostracized. Don’t get me wrong, I brought this upon myself. I chose to be a vagabond. I chose to give up everything time and time again. And I’m pretty sure I would do it all over again because it’s been one hell of an adventure. But sometimes I long for a home.

Journal #4 - Where do we go from here: Sara Fondo on a beach in Bora Bora

Four Ikea Bags

I remember being a little girl, perched on my windowsill at night like a melancholic pigeon, eyes locked on the inky void outside. I didn’t know what lay beyond, but I was convinced the darkness outside was better than the one devouring me within the walls my parents called home. I craved to spread my wings and fly into the unknown. I could never deal with the shouting, the anger, the hurt, the violence, the ever-pending end. So, I left, and I came back, and I left, and I returned. I’ve half-jokingly compared my relationship with my parents to Stockholm Syndrome on a few occasions. But now, there will be no returning to the first place I learned to run from.

My life in Denmark has been reduced to four moving boxes, that my dear friend store for me in her basement, and four Ikea bags that’s stashed in my other dear friend’s attic. These two, among a few others, are people that I love with all my heart and will always return to, but these people are not my home. They all have homes of their own, and though I’m always invited inside like the stray that I am, it’s not for me to stay.

Nowhere to go but anywhere

I guess that’s one thing they don’t tell you about becoming a traveler. They don’t tell you that you’ll come back one day and realize that home is no longer home, and that places and people that were once so familiar to you, are no longer familiar, and that from now on, home can no longer be found within four walls – it’s somewhat of a feeling, and so you’re bound to keep wandering because the most peculiar places and people spark this sense of home in you.

In a way, I am lucky to feel a little bit at home in multiple places by multiple people. In another way, I wonder if I will ever feel completely at home again because all those homey places and people are scattered across the world and will never be in one place at the same time, nor felt all at once.

Traveling has truly taught me to be comfortable anywhere, but that may well have led me to feel like I belong nowhere. I’ve grown too foreign for the place I’m supposed to call home, yet I’m still the eternal foreigner as I roam around the planet. But maybe that is the price I must pay for wanting an adventurous life.

It’s terrifying and strange and oddly beautiful to think that I have nowhere to go but anywhere.

What will my next chapter look like once I disembark the boat that I currently live and work on? I mean, who the hell knows, definitely not me. Maybe I’ll climb a mountain in Nepal, go skinny-dipping in a lake in Slovenia, or ride a horse across Kyrgyzstan.

And if you know me well enough, you know that I probably will.

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