On the road, I’m greeted with great enthusiasm. Hosts press me to come back soon. My scintillating personality may not win people over, but my compelling story might. I inhabit the legend of the wandering minstrel with speaking lines like:
“Last week a herd of buffalo almost ran me over in North Dakota… we ate gruyere at the picnic in Montreal… I don’t know where next week will come: Duluth? New York City?”
People that are stationary, by dint of a new family, contented home, or pressing job, do gravitate towards my story. One woman remarked that I smelled like freedom. I may need to shower more. A coworker, shackled to his four kids, asked me to pack him along.
There’s a tradition of landed gentry supporting wandering minstrels. I trade tales of the road in exchange for a hot meal and the warmth of a fire. I open the bag of tricks in my car and present a life differently lived.
It’s not that I live better. Nobody wants to give up beautiful kids and a well-appointed house to live out of their car and tackle the uncertainty of travel. Yet when I pass through, my hosts glimpse the road and the possibility to sever the bonds of career. People want alternatives to bad work days and dead-end jobs.
Furthermore, I no longer have work hanging over me. I slowly shed my former taught anxiety. I can be more patient, engaged, and entertaining. My time feels abundant. I have no flight to catch. I am here to see you.