on digital nomading
creating "home" where i'm at
It’s been six months since I put my Atlanta life in storage to “digital nomad.” Wild!
I spent August and September in Austin, Texas, hanging out with my college bestie and her family. My domain for the stay—a very thoughtfully prepped-for-me camping trailer in my friend’s backyard. A splash of #vanlife, if you will.
I got the chance to observe millennial mom life while we traversed between coffee and co-work mornings at my friend’s kitchen table, wine nights enhanced by music from our past lives, Costco runs, school pickups, ballet practice, and me cooking past my two-person boundary, testing recipes on a family.
I moved my morning workouts outdoors to get my sweat on in the Texas sun (but let’s talk about the short window I had because, Texas). My skin changed. My body changed. All of a sudden, my face was glowing, and the 10 lbs that had been fighting for its fucking life to stay with me was gone.
I celebrated 39 with a Mediterranean-themed “cookbook club” dinner surrounded by the inspiring ladies who make up my bestie’s community.
And I also said “absolutely” to a new writing opportunity with Vanderbilt University, a bit of brand writing (my favorite), and feature writing (what I’ve been saying I wanted to get back into). My first story was about football (and I don’t “sports”), so it was a major leap from my comfort zone.
After watching my life slow down during the first half of the year, this all felt like my “pass-go” moment, but I had mixed feelings about it. Very, “I love Atlanta, but what’s happening right now seems like confirmation that it was time to go.”
But alas, October was back to Atlanta! I voted for Kamala. I checked my mail. I swapped some summer clothes for fall. I took pictures underneath trees flaunting red and gold leaves, soaking it all up before returning to Texas’ lingering summer. I explored the city from a different perspective, agreeing to events and lunch dates in parts of town I’d have previously flaked on because I’m a neighborhood body.
November and December, I spent with family in what I’ve decided is the “country burbs,” just north of Austin in Jarrell, Texas. Not a lot to do there at the moment, yet sleek apartments and subdivisions are popping up in anticipation of what’s to come.
But Jarrell’s suburban-fying (?) status mattered not in comparison to the fun I had with my family. My sister cooked (multiple meals every day…I was like, damn, how nourishing! How nice she is to be a professional who cooks daily for her family because, as I’ve mentioned before, my mom wasn’t about that life); I mostly wined (I cooked a few times), and we danced to music from our childhood in her living room.
My mom rolled into town from East Texas for Christmas, and we all road-tripped to good old Lubbock, Texas (AKA the cowtown I ran away from after high school and never looked back). Aside from seeing family members I haven’t seen in ages, the highlight of the trip was treating myself to an Airbnb in the neighborhood I adored as a kid!
This is what it looks like on the way to Lubbock…one can see why I love Atlanta so much.
And now I’m writing to you from the cutest little Kasa in Midtown Atlanta (complete with a mint green faux retro refrigerator that I need in my life). I came back in January, and am doing all the things that are now part of my nomad routine—checking my mail. Swapping my clothes. Chilling with friends. Getting some much-needed bodywork to combat the damage I’ve done. My chiro was like, “Have you had any injuries?” I’m like, “Nah…just living!”
It’s also time for my annual eye and physical exams, so I’m doing those while I’m here—basically knocking out all of the “adulting activities” before I head out again.
Next month, I’m off to Sonoma for a Northern California food writing class/adventure.
I’m learning to create “home” wherever I’m at—a surprisingly tough task for me because, as it turns out, I’m quite the nester, and I want my own shit. I wasn’t expecting the slight jealousy I have of the Pinterest-worthy spaces I insist on staying in. I want to possess them. I really want this Classic fridge in my Kasa, for example.
I’m self-soothing with the reminder that the freedom to stay wherever, whenever, and reveling in different aesthetics is the prize—not the mint green fridge I have nowhere to put yet. (And how late 30s is it of me to be pining over appliances?)
I’ve also come to accept that if I’m going to be a nomad, I have to check a bag(s), a task I typically avoid due to a bad experience at Houston Hobby airport. But creating home where I’m at means I need specific shit for my face, hair, and body, so I’m basically “good vibes only” now on the bag-checking.
Home also means having the ability to cook myself meals in real kitchens with real utensils—a lesson learned from the Airbnb I stayed in briefly before switching to my Kasa. Cute space, great location (super close to my old VaHi apartment), but the cooking tools? Questionable. And I’m pretty sure the “olive oil” mentioned in the listing was actually vegetable oil in a dark glass dispenser. Much love to the hosts who have home chefs in mind!
In addition to real kitchens and tools to cook with, home is (good) coffee I can sip in the mornings while I catch up on my podcasts. It’s not skimping on my skincare because, as I discovered in Texas, my skin has thoughts on climate changes. It’s having my yoga mat with me to maintain my workout routine. It’s Sunday Wash Days—for my hair (brought to me by the Kerastase that has to travel with me) and my laundry (as an in-unit washer and dryer is essential). It’s piping hot showers (having stayed in two Aibnb’s recently with lukewarm water is two too many), watching trash reality TV, and getting ample, comfortable sleep.
Overall, my little experience experiment is teaching me a lot about me. I knew I was a little high maintenance and yeahhh, kinda possessive, but now I can see it. Hilarious! The digital nomad life is like, “Porsha? Are you aware of this?”
Yes, I’m aware. I like it. I’m learning. I’m doing great.