Homeless

A few days in the Netherlands.

Visiting family.

It’s nice. But it also feels a little strange.

Seven years ago we left. By now, the Netherlands no longer feels like home. At Schiphol I rent a car. Then I check into a hotel. Nothing here belongs to me anymore.

Except my little suitcase.

My whole life fits inside it. A few T-shirts. A sweater. Toothpaste. A phone charger. And the latest novel by Sandro Veronesi, about the fleeting nature of life. Highly recommended. He writes the way Italians often do: calm, thoughtful, and never in a hurry.

As I unpack my suitcase, it suddenly strikes me how little a person actually needs.

Everything else is luxury.

Or baggage.

Maybe that’s why I feel so free when I travel. Everything that really matters fits into one small suitcase.

For a moment, I think about homeless people.

They travel light too.

Everything they own fits into a backpack or a shopping cart. Of course, their story is completely different. Not a choice, but a reality. Still, the image is the same: a person carrying everything they own.

It puts possessions into perspective.

We often believe a bigger house, more furniture, more things will make us happier.

Yet here I am, sitting in a hotel room with a small suitcase on the bed.

And I don’t really miss anything.

Maybe we’re far less attached to our possessions than we think.

Or maybe home isn’t a house at all.

Maybe it’s simply the people you’re visiting