It's a strange and unique feeling to be going home after so long on the road. And not even a true home but a more temporary one. But one still more permanent than a hostel, a train.
As our train drives through the Czeck mountains at sunset, passing tiny towns and winding its way through valleys along the river, I can't help but be filled with an excited, sad, hopeful and elated homesickness.
But really, where am I homesick for? Is it Paris? Austin? New Jersey? Or is it really on the road? Out here with Jack? With thousands of restless backpackers? With Ali and Chelsey? With my dad and Bandit?
I breathe this air, moving as fast as I am and can't help but to think of myself as a storyteller, a bard, a singer and bringer of news. And I am. People ask for my stories, my songs, my news from afar. We are a unique people, us wanderers, and I wouldn't ever give this up. I will wander from time to time for ever.
But home is always at the end of the tracks.
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