I deeply believe in the concept of home as a base. Somewhere safe to belong and return to. I've opined before about the foolishness of constant travel when we put so much effort into creating a home. It occurs to me that when we travel over long distances, we make ourselves temporarily homeless. We tend to be somewhat pitying of the genuine homeless, who huddle and sleep on public transport, but then we place ourselves in the same situation as we en masse sleep fitfully on giant jumbo jet planes criscrossing the oceans and continents.
I write from the somewhat fractured observation point of Gatwick departures lounge, having staggered dazed into the dull british morning en route to some other place. I was prepared to play the part of the executive traveler, and give myself the excess luxury of a hotel room as I wait out the next leg of my journey, but the available options exceeded my budget for luxury and veered into pure decadence. So instead I sit unshaven and unshowered, tethered to the wall by an electrical cord and to the internet by a rented wireless connection. And somehow the familiarity of a warm laptop and eager browser means that I can shut out the dull numbness of a head pounded by jet engines for seven hours, and feel coseted for a short time. I'm in no position to do any serious work although I have several hours at my disposal but I can at least respond to emails, look over power points, and feel up to date with the daily onslaught of demands for my attention.
Tongiht I should reach my destination, and make my substitute home in a Jolly hotel (their name, not mine). And so I will relinquish my temporary status as itinerant until the end of week, when my return journey will make me a chair sleeper once more.