Memory of a Fellow Vagabond

One of the most memorable encounters during my 2 year stint as a vagabond was another traveller at a hostel in Christchurch, New Zealand. A modern, clean place that had an indoor turf area and outdoor stainless steel fire pits. The kind of hostel that had “pods” rather than “bunks”. It smelted like an airport in there.

What was notable was what wasn’t said. Usually, names are exchanged after the standard questions of “where are you from?” and “how long will you be here”, and goodbyes are peppered with hopeful phrases such as “maybe we’ll see each other again” or “let’s stay in touch. What’s your instagram?”.

And of course the shock and admiration (or jealousy) that surfaced when it came to light that I had been travelling long term.

This conversation went more like

A: Where are you from?

S: Germany. You?

A: The US. Staying long?

S: No, just a night.

A: Where to next?

S: Not so sure. You? Travelling a while? (he glances at my unadorned and dirty bag)

A: A while, yeah. Where next? Maybe south, maybe west.

S: Same here, a while.

A: 6 months?

S: About a year and a half now

A: Ah, I see. Almost 2 years for me.

S: Haha, good luck then. Don’t go too fast.

A: Right back at you. Rest well, safe travels.

S: Rest well and long.

———

No goodbyes. No swapping stories.

Brief, but intimate in unspoken understanding, and refreshingly without having to pretend like we’d stay in touch or plan an outing together or “run into each other someday” naivety.

The heart-rending excitement of being on the road had, by then, become a distinct kind of weariness for the both of us. It was simply our way of life, if I am bold enough to assume we were living similarly.

I hope you’re well, stranger.