August 26th 2:34PM NRW, Germany – Four months? Fuck, it feels like yesterday.

Apologies for the lack of updates. Since I arrived in Europe just over three weeks ago my life has been a bit hectic. I knew, going into this experience, that I wanted to avoid making solid plans. The opposite of what my time in Australia and New Zealand had been in 2009. But I think I’ve since learned that there is a difference between rolling with the punches and being an irresponsible idiot. Still, I don’t regret any of the choices I’ve made because I continue to move forward and I continue to collect valuable life lessons. I continue to learn about myself. I continue to live. Which is all I can really ask for. I’m not sure if I’ll actually be able to accomplish what I originally set out to do, but it isn’t going to stop me from trying. I’ve come to terms with the fact that going back to the states before the end of the year is a definite possibility. And that’s okay. The time I’ve spent traveling has been everything I needed it to be and more.

Today marks four months exactly since I left Chicago in April. Which is strange. I don’t keep track of the passing days much anymore, my everyday existence has become a comfortable routine of manual labor and a regulated sleep-schedule. The world narrowed down to a small village in Rahden, Germany. Or rather the farm house where I live and work. It’s simple. And predictable, up to a point. Breakfast at 8:30am. Coffee, toast with butter and jam, cigarette. Four hours of replanting herbs with Elke or watering the garden or helping Oliver with construction of the farm shop. Lunch around 1:00pm. Usually pasta with home-made sauce and home-grown vegetables, cloudy apple juice, cigarette. Break for an hour or less. Checking emails, catching up with friends, cigarette. Two or more hours of replanting herbs with Elke or watering the garden or helping Oliver with construction of the farm shop. Shower. Stare at my computer screen for an hour and a half. Dinner at 6:30pm. Home-made bread (by me), tomatoes, cheese, prosciutto, fresh salad from the garden, cloudy apple juice, cigarette. Sometimes more coffee. Four hours of free time. Bed at 11:30pm. Sunday is mine to do with as I please. Rinse and repeat.

I find that I enjoy this immensely. The exhaustion in my bones each evening feels deserved. Satisfying. Worthwhile. I wake up each morning with a purpose.

Elke struggles with her English, but her temperament is sweet and her humor warm. Oliver is a chatterbox with a penchant for over-explaining things, but he is intelligent and absent-minded and mildly awkward. I like them very much. We discuss politics. Oliver also plays the guitar.

My room is in the attic of the guest-house. At the moment I am the only WWOOFer, but I’ve been told there will be another sometime in September when Oliver begins cultivating his mushrooms again. My ceiling slants and the floor dips and groans in the middle when I walk over it. My bed is large and soft. It feels like home.

If I’m not in my room or sharing a meal with my hosts, I’m in the garden sitting in the old chair swing covered in ivy. Or at the table by the barn, staring up at the clouds until the light dies behind the house. There are two beautiful cats. Micky and I’ve forgotten the name of the other. They follow me around every morning and every evening, begging for nose-scratches and tummy rubs. Sometimes they visit me at night when I indulge in one last cigarette before sleep, meowing and nuzzling at my shins as I sit on the stoop outside my door.

For now, this is making me happy. I don’t know where I’m going after, or even how long I’m staying here. There are personal goals I must accomplish before that can be determined. Personal goals that used to stress me out. But with the security of food in my belly and a roof over my head, my future looks a lot more promising.

May 10th, 12:51PM, Seat 8A on Flight 560 to Portland

I can already tell that it’s gonna take some time for me to find my sea legs. It’s been more than two years since I had to carry around my life on my back and it’s sort of a weird feeling. The urge to get rid of stuff is strong and only a few weeks have gone by. The only issue is that shedding the extra weight this time around means saying goodbye to it forever. There’s no back-up supply life waiting for me at home. Mostly because I don’t really have a home anymore, but I digress. I guess coming to terms with existing in extreme minimalism is a longer process than I anticipated. Another reason to cut down on what I carry with me is the brutal bag-check fee every time I fly. Nothing is without value anymore, and it’s breaking my bank account.

May 10th, 10:28PM Portland, OR – The Big Magenta House on SE 25th and Cora St

My new host for the duration of my stay in Portland is someone I haven’t seen on this hemisphere. Melody and I met in Darwin, Australia a few Summers ago. We  both couchsurfed at the same house for a period of time and the connection remained even though we’d both moved on with our lives. She’s probably one of the most inspiring people I know. Because she hasn’t let what’s expected of her interfere with who she is and what she wants. Melody has traveled so many places and met so many amazing people and done so many wonderful things. I can only hope that one day I will reach her level of badassery.

Her house in Portland is shared by four other equally impressive individuals and within moments of arriving (1 train and 2 buses later) I felt a pang of longing. Longing for the lifestyles these people had, the sense of community. I have many beloved friends back in Chicago, but not once did my experience there ever feel communal. For some reason I think I’ve been chasing after that kind of existence but never seemed to find what I was looking for. Perhaps that’s another reason why I left. To look for the pieces of me that I haven’t found and that live on in other humans and other places and other happenings. To me, that’s what travel is, discovering yourself in others, in other cultures and ways of life. Because everything is an extension of everything else. Maybe that’s why everything always feels so familiar, even if I’ve never been there before.

Also, it’s really fucking cold in Oregon at night. And here I thought I was chasing the sun.