A traveler has many homes. But what is home, really? To me, home is a lot of places.
Home is on a street cafe in Bologna.
Home is in the jungle outside Chiang Mai.
Home is when I’m walking through the colourful Riomaggiore.
Home is with the Orangutans in Borneo.
Home is in a cheap ass hostel in Vientiane, drinking beer with 8 new best friends.
Home is on a beach in Koh Lanta while watching the sunset.
Home is on the river in Malacca.
Home is in my favorite bar in Saigon.
Home is on the top of a mountain in the incredible Scottish Highlands.
Home is at a West End theatre in London watching Wicked with my brother.
Home is on a private beach on Koh Rong.
Home is at the local market in Hanoi.
Home is drinking beer, whilst sitting on the curb at 3 AM with my British Tinder date in Luang Prabang.
Home is on a cramped local bus to Pakse that took 15 hours instead of 9.
Home is at a Christmas market in Schwerin with my family.
Home is when I’m wandering the streets of New York.
Home is in front of the street art in Penang.
Home is in a karaoke bar in Philadelphia drinking too many drinks with my American friends.
Home is on a roof top bar drinking expensive drinks – more than I can afford.
Home is at a street party in Bangkok with people who are barely out of high school.
Home is in the temples of Angkor Wat.
Home is in yet another airport waiting for another flight taking me to no where.
Home is in a hotel in Amman watching a Jordanian wedding.
Home is meeting local tribes in the cold, but beautiful, Sapa.
Home is everywhere. Home is nowhere.
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