I don’t watch movies very often. I watch shows even less regularly. I have trouble getting sucked into the screen and wiling away my hours. If I’m at a theater, I’ll often walk out for about ten minutes just to kill some time and energy. If there’s a show on, I’m usually on my phone checking Reddit and catching up on the news. There’s something that just stops me: even if I’m perfectly absorbed, I’ll suddenly be pulled from my reverie and be acutely aware that I – am – sitting – watching – a – movie, and start examining what is going on to gauge how much time is left.

All this being said, if I do start binging on Netflix (thanks for the password, G!), something is probably severely wrong.

I’m on Season 2, Episode 3 of Once. There’s 22 episodes in the first season.

Fortunately, I’m getting better at self-diagnosing. I know exactly what is going wrong, but instead of letting myself drown in delivery and mindless entertainment, I’m fighting it.

I’ve also been very lucky: every day for the last week, I’ve been able to have intentional human interaction.

You guys, I have friends in Denver.

For me, that is one of the most vital things.

Because of friends, I’m able to discover new places. Sushi in the Highlands, burgers off Federal, a martini in Edgewater. I’m able to re-enjoy old ones, too. Coffee in Boulder, or a beer at Belmar.

But as much as I love these places, this backyard tourism, in the end, it’s the people who make the difference. The company on the other side of the table telling stories and making me laugh. The waiter who jokes when you request a box for the rest of your meal. The bartender who gets so excited you work in a coffee shop that she gives you her business card and promises to come in soon. There’s a lot of compassion in this world, a lot of people who enjoy what they do.

There’s also a lot of people who, mind-boggling as it may seem, actually enjoy spending time with me. Now, this isn’t one of those self-deprecating posts. I genuinely sometimes forget that I’m not living behind a one-way mirror. Long gone are the days of the cafe when I lived at the register, or would start making Linda’s latte as she opened the front door. It’s easy for me to get lost in the world of receipts and scheduling and business transactions where I am a mouthpiece rather than a person.

So to step outside of that – to start pulling on threads that have been building for the last nine months and realize there actually is a bond of friendship… well, that’s pretty delightful. It’s humbling. It’s strengthening. It’s the beauty of travel: realizing that there genuinely good people all over the world. There are people who will reach back out in the dark hour, and say, “Hello, there. I see you. And you are important to me, too.”

Being a nomad is hard. Being a nomad who moves is harder.

Thank you, friends. Thank you for the gift of being able to call you that.