One reflection that travel will visibly display is how many people in the world are homeless. You've probably heard many yarns begin this way, but I'll spin another one in hopes of spinning a different way.

The phrase homeless is a politically and socially loaded term. When I say homeless, the predominant imagery a reader has is that of the society's fractured, on the streets with cups in hand, or wrapped up in blankets on the night's sidewalks. These are, without debate, the least fortunate of the urban world's residents. And the debate about how best to help them is a complex one, for which we as individuals might do what we can to alleviate their sufferings. Once, for instance, on an 8 hour layover at Greyhound Chicago, I brought a homeless man with me to a McDonald's for lunch, a rewarding experience that I recommend trying.

But this is not the reason I bring up the term homeless. Because being homeless is not just a physical reality. It is often a psychological one. It is easy enough to declare: "I have a house, therefore I am not homeless". But the physically homeless man sees concrete in a different way than us, and just as appropriately, we should not face the word "homeless" with concreteness. Often, when I am throwing all of my things into the backpack for the umpteenth time I wonder if I am technically homeless, or perhaps the opposite: am I less homeless now than at any point in my life?

When traveling, you'll easily meet people from all over the world. One of the first questions asked is: "Where are you from." (De donde es?) I consider this something of a difficult question. Usually I say New York, because it is a widely known location. But I've lived nearby Seattle for the last five years. Isn't this my home? In comparison, my situation is simple. Take Jose, who was born in Chile, but had to flee the country for politcal asylum in England when he was five. Now he has returned for a vacation in Chile, to realize that his English accent is strong, and isn't accepted as a Chilean. Or Rachel, who grew up in South Africa and now for financial reasons has moved to London. Her home is somewhere in between. Phil made the move in the opposite direction: England to New Zealand, and to those of either country his accent is noticeably from some other island. In a sense, the readily accessible opportunity of travel is an intoxication whose only side effect is dislocation. When we stop, we can probably find a home, but will it be a home?

This leads me to an experience last night in Mendoza, Argentina. Walking around for dinner, I spotted a vegetarian restaurant. Now, I'm not a vegetarian, but after two months of indirectly slaughering the pigs, cows, and chickens of Argentina and Chile, only the most voracious of meat eaters wouldn't be curious at seeing a restaurant named "The Green Apple". I took the chance and decided to eat there. It was a slow night and so the owner came to chat with me. Before long, I realized I had met yet another person with the kernel of homelessness.

Christina was born, raised, and married at 15 in Mendoza. Then, on her husband's wishes, she went to New York City to learn English to aid the business they were running back in Argentina. Before long, she realized she had many more opportunities in NYC than at home, and got a divorce. She would stay in the States for 33 years, loving every minute of it, only to return because she promised her mother that she would come back if she was needed.

This is where she is now, running her vegetarian restaurant. And I do mean running. During our conversation she was yet another friendly and welcoming Argentine. With that lovable and recognizable mixture of haste, impatience, with a strange variety of love, she would raise from the chair to remind her young severs of their duties, and with a half-smile, half-scowl they would carry them out. She was the first person I had met that was truly Argentine and New Yorker. Her accent strayed somewhere in between, and her foul-language, strong opinions, and dirty jokes left no doubt on the matter. You haven't lived until you've heard an Argentine say "pecker."

But as the restaurant approached its midnight closing time, she confessed that she was close to crying. Meeting me had reminded her of so much that she missed about New York City. In fact, talking to her reminded me that even I miss some things from my home state. At this, I didn't know what to say. Do I say "thank you" or "I'm sorry"? Or do I summon the New Yorker in me and say "It's not that baaad"? I think she saw all of the choices I was considering, and the pause was enough. I finished my brilliant pear cheesecake, and left satisfactorily, with that comforting feeling of a having lived a day that has reached its true conclusion.

At the end of it all, I think I can depend on the fact that no matter where I'm headed next, it is one step closer to home. But I realize this is an assumption. Perhaps home is wherever you stop. In the meantime, raise some potential energy.

Always moving, ever onward, the Watson soul.