[This post was written when my nomadic life turned 3 months – but I still have many of the same thoughts and views]. Wow, wow, wow. It has been – actually, really, officially been – three months. Three months since I looked out of an airplane window to watch the snowy peaks of my home country’s mountains disappear (I actually didn’t really see them since it was really cloudy that day). Three months since I climbed out of a taxi at Vienna airport in the wee hours of the morning, a huge smile on my face, my passport in hand and a flight confirmation code ready on my phone. About to get on a plane to Thailand. Destination: the picture-perfect island of Koh Phangan. Future: Unknown. Return ticket: nonexistent.

A million fresh starts awaiting

And my mood? I was over the moon. Finally about to do what I longed to do for so long: travel somewhere, and then just travel somewhere else. And then again, travel on to a new place. Go wherever I want to go. Or stay, whatever. Look back, but with a smile and gratefulness, or not look back and do better next time. A million opportunities awaiting, a million fresh starts to choose from. Was I scared? Even a little? Or anxious? It may sound weird, but no, not at all. I knew exactly that what I was doing was right for me, that everything I have done before, every step I have taken and every education and job I chose and had have been leading me towards this point, this very moment of finally being free.
3 month 2
Only 7 shirts and still smiling – who would have guessed?

Getting here

And I know that I was – and am – doing something that a lot of people dream of doing. I know that I was lucky enough to be born and raised into circumstances that allowed me to just pack up and go out into the world, while other people are not that lucky. But I also know that I made a lot of sacrifices to get to where I am now. That I worked hard and planned every step way ahead. What I have, what I do, how I live, it all comes at a cost.  I probably won’t have a huge career with according salary anytime soon (but then, what journalist will??). Won’t own a nice apartment or a fancy car. I spend a lot of time away from my family and friends, miss birthdays and holidays, celebrations and reunions. Won’t have a closet full of my beloved shoes and purses to pick from every day. Hell, I will wear the same seven shirts for about half a year (if you think seven is a lot, consider that those include sleep- and workout-shirts. If you’re not convinced, let me just tell you: It is not a lot!).

And now?

I am willing to deal with insecurities, with the lack of a steady income, with constant changes. With the feeling of being completely lost that surfaces from time to time, even in the most paradise-like places. Because I am happy. I still am. Maybe even happier than on that day at the airport, three months ago. I finally feel like I have arrived, and with every departure, I am arriving even more. I like the daily challenges that come with constant change. The smells and adventures and streets of that somewhere-else-place, wherever it is. Foreign people, foreign cities, foreign tastes. And me, reassured and comforted by the strangeness around me.        

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