Six months ago, I quit my job, broke my lease, and boarded a plane to Israel with no plan and nothing but a backpack. Since then, I’ve hiked from the Mediterranean to the Sea of Galilee, slept under the Negev stars, and watched drones explode in the sky over Makhtesh Ramon. I’ve cast a rod in the Bosphorus, ridden ferries past the sultans’ pavilions, and plucked ripe tomatoes from vines above the Rhône. I made wine from Chambertin grapes, stayed awake for the blood moon on my 24th birthday, and finished writing my first book.
I’ll always be a wanderer, but my days of Waltzing Maltida are done. When I return to France, it will be with a visa, an apartment, the trappings of an ordinary life. Three months back, I was sleeping in a tent in the Swiss woods, taking outdoor showers cold enough to freeze vodka, and pooping in a hole in the ground. I have a sports car now, a new computer, an amazing job and the beginnings of a home in the heart of the greatest wine region on Earth. There are days I catch myself taking this for granted. It is, after all, the new normal.
With what aphorism can I capture half a year on the road? What life lessons can I offer? I’ve got nothing. Not yet. But I’m going home, and among familiar faces and haunts, I’ll begin to metabolize this journey. Over the holidays, I’ll ramble about meals shared, sunsets watched, waters swum. I’ll wax philosophical on the worldview-widening experience that is travel. Perhaps I’ll even find the words to express what this adventure—2% of my life!—means to me. For now, however, I’ll go no further than I made it. I made it. I fucking made it!
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