Eight beds I have slept in so far. And in all houses I’ve felt welcome and comfortable. All beds slept well. I didn’t need much time to get used to the sounds of the house and the street, to the daily routines and household habits of my hosts.
Five weeks I’ve been traveling so far. Twice I’ve been in my own house. As a stranger I rang my own doorbell and a stranger opened the door. ‘Welcome to your house,’ he said strikingly. Alienated I entered. My legs climbed the stairs without an effort, my hands reached for the doorhandle without a single look. Yes, this obviously was my house. But I didn’t want to stay long. I had no urge to stay. On the contrary, it felt too much like being in somebody else’s home.
Sixteen housemates I have had, many meals and glasses of wine, profound conversations and light chitchats or sharing a space in silent comfort. Once I longed to go home. I had four meetings planned, too many people, for two whole days, lots of talking, lots of fun. Too much! I want to go home. I looked at myself a second time. Did I really want to go home? Or was it something else I longed for? I cancelled all appointments for the next days. I didn’t go home. I was looking for my own company solely. And went onward on my journey.