Nomad

The phone call made it clear we weren’t seeing each other again.

It wasn’t explicitly enunciated, no. Though flicking through the other transcripts — I often record my phone calls for liabilities, and yes, even those ones, but regardless — there was a little more, how to say, gusto. Rhythm, a pulled back enthusiasm.

But this last phone call was a spasm in the court room. Some lockjaw arrest while the wiggled larynx strains around for any, any indicator on how to push through this untold burial. One can only meekly muster “That’s great” in cadence, in whatever’s been the latest since. What else can you do?

It’s a closed chapter is what I say. I already scraped and blocked their socials. You never know. And with a half sipped latte and a half finished file transfer into my contacts archive, so I leaned back to get lost in the timeline.

We met backpacking through Laos of all places. It was supposed to be a three nighter before flying back to Tokyo for another two monther, something so inconsequential, but while lounging around in the mid-day lobby we shared a chuckle spawned from another disgruntled customer demanding a suite so resolutely printed on their online reservation. The sun peeked and painted their ruddy chubby face fuming, highlighting the slam of both hands to counter with a jiggle to match.

That chuckle turned into a chat, and then a conversation, and conversations more with an evening meal. For a first impression I loved where they clipped their Yeti to their triple-strapped REI backpack and thought I’d mimic that. (It was on the handle strap.) For some second impressions I enjoyed their same reservations about our American infrastructure, their semi-permanent smirk amongst the bamboo restaurant decor.

Comparing our AirBnb addresses and rough itineraries — I always kept a rolling 6 month schedule, roughly — so it was revealed they’re booking the same municipality for three weeks. It was their first time visiting, and I saw for the moment a coveted glimmer of novelty, however vicarious. I strong-armed a numbers exchange under the guise of delivering a deluxe tour. Truthfully, I was looking forward to seeing things through their eyes. And, truthfully, that’s all I wanted. I’m not sure why it turned into something more.

It started, most likely, upon on our first separation. While packing to a methodology I developed over the last five years — toward a certainty nothing was left and lost — so I kept getting confused. Things I packed I had to unpack to start again, at least three times to the misfortune of my tech gadgets; luckily none scratched. What was usually an hour event extended into a three day anxiety wondering where I was or what I was becoming.

It didn’t end there, unfortunately. Even with a lovely discount of a loft so top notch where they had the flowing water for a sink (you know the kind) and marble beds, marble utensils, marble doorbells with marble door handles, so it didn’t mean much to me. Even though I was eyeing this marble paradise for more than a year, I finally got here and instead I paced around increasingly unsettled.

To where I couldn’t work on my SaaS much at all, couldn’t blog about my Laos for my devoted newsletter readers (which I’d coyly force upon them even if they originally signed up for marketing tips, but sometimes you need to dangle the stick a bit in an ethos flint to flame). How will I possibly compose my review when this ends?

I’d stare out the balcony. I’d visit one same convenience store, shuffle back three discount bento boxes, and stare up more to think about what sort of stars followed me here. For three weeks. It wasn’t agony, just unsettling.

Everything cleared with their arrival of course. I crafted a way to meet them at the airport, out of a moronic pitch that I could contort their first impressions of Tokyo toward a reaching tourist divine, and it had to start at the airport to which I prepared an entire historical construction report memorized. Suffice to say, while standing at the terminal and periodically wiping my hands, waiting for someone that was essentially a stranger, I was surprised to find myself finally calm. The only part that bothered was wondering whether we would hug seeing as I spent three weeks with them in my mind. Of course, it was a handshake.

I can’t believe this is happening, and this is wonderful, or I hope your Bangkok reunion went well — they confessed to me they had a monumental meeting with someone from their hometown. This stung, but only because it was the main thing they talked about while we waited for their luggage. I weaseled in two paragraphs from my prepared speech, but that’s all, and okay I suppose. You shake these things off. I’m not even sure what I was hoping to accomplish.

And my uncertainty only increased with each destination and promises to meet again. I was so fixated on my speech that I neglected the rest of the day trip plans, so I yielded toward one of my favorite YouTubers (as was my main inspiration for my own channel, even if I haven’t uploaded in a year and change).

The Glibli museum, and the parks between — famous ramen, intersections, and I can’t honestly recall where we went or why. The entire time I was mildly satisfied at their fascination, they certainly had a dazzle about them; the same I had when I first visited, too, and it let me relax seeing as any first time visit will always be magical. I was unneeded, practically.

It was the truth. There was less and less justification to tag along, or suggest new things — they’d point to the latest Japan guide article and insist to go there next, to see if I already went, to know everything between the tags and page listings. I was no longer in control, but I didn’t mind it necessarily. This, though, was the fatal error.

The more we did things together and the more I let things happen, the more I got used to it. I got used to them texting me where to meet, and I got used to their idle commentary as we revolved around the gift shops. A tap on the shoulder to help with some Japanese, too, and I’d obliged mechanically, as though this was the reason I learned the language actually.

It took me one evening walking them back from the nearby con to finally realized what happened. Frantically I whipped out my iPhone to see the calendar: two days remaining. Two days until they’re off to Munich.

In my daze so I realized conversation stopped long since happening: a shared silence was sufficient, and a somberness I picked up on. Maybe they were thinking the same thing.

But we both kept our silence. It’d be absurd for me to find a way to Munich, and they probably thought the same thing. I was a convenient friend for a convenient distance from home.

We hugged, and I received the phone call today. And I resisted every urge to suggest I’ll go to Munich with them. And even if they paused for a moment, perhaps waiting for this very suggestion, well, they could have suggested it too. As the call trailed toward its end, so I think we both accepted our shared moment has come to an end.

I thought I may have found something with them — something I’ve been searching for this entire time on this nomadic inclination — but I brushed it off. Seeing as Tokyo is completely drenched in a memory I need distance from, I whipped out my calendar, deleted it all, and booked for Mexico City. I’m confident the tacos with the lime and beer will delight my unaware but nevertheless accepting newsletter marketing readers.