Zane Jarecke by Ken Jarecke — Hello, Abyss
By Dad

10. Wrestling the Social Sphinx

Healthy relationships require trust. And trust is built with commitment over time–a quality that by default, vagabonds struggle to provide.

This constraint can either severely limit our opportunities for relationships, or it can hugely enhance it.

Usually it does both.

The Restraint: the time it takes to form relationships.

If there were 10 Commandments for vagabonds, not leaving a country before making at least one good friend would be on the list.

It's a rule I've become strict about after reflecting on my past travels: a long list of countries, but a short list of friends.

Though your main focus while traveling may not be forging friendships, the number of friends you have in a given place is a telling gauge for how immersed you really were.

Brief exchanges with taxi drivers and bartenders don’t count. Who can you call today and have a place to crash at by tonight? That person counts.

In Istanbul, I didn’t have that person.

Nine months into my voyage, this was a bitter realization. I was supposed to be adept at this solo-travel game. At least enough to be able to create some relationships.

Yet, no matter my effort, I was friendless for nearly two months.

Pick any day in that period and you’d be able to find me lost, lonely, and with a mouth full of kebab.

It didn’t help that my sleep had dwindled down to 4-6 hours per day. Energy was plummeting, and along with it, my efforts to explore and meet friends. The powerup from my Labor 6 Elixir could no longer be counted on (I ate what may have been a bootlegged can of sardines that ended up paralyzing me into a cold and sweaty body for a week).

Every day, it was harder to lug my exhausted body out of the hostel and back through the unfailing thick and full-bodied smog to my favorite street-food stand.

Just to realize, even the best kebab was tasteless without friends to enjoy it with.

One day, I was offered an English teaching job to people my age.

If you think this development would’ve surely marked the end of my friendless months, then you are as optimistically misguided as I was back then.

The problem is, neither of us accounted for how foreign teachers fit into the social landscape of one of the world’s largest metropolises.

There are over 15 million residents of Istanbul. 16 million tourists visited in 2022. That’s almost 44,000 tourists per day. It’s also the hub for millions of undocumented migrants (meaning the actual population is closer to 20 million) who come usually from the East and stay until they make enough money to continue their migration West.

Living in this city is like being a small rock in the middle of a huge river.

Why would you invest in a relationship knowing that person will soon flow out of your life?

This is why the locals I met through school didn’t welcome me with open arms like my ego selfishly expected and craved. There were many teachers before me and many coming after.

In densely populated or touristy areas, this is the uphill battle all travelers face.

My students wanted to know if they could trust me. They wanted to see I was committed.

They wanted to see me relish their culinary delights, scarf down a skillet of bubbling menemen with bread as my only utensil, sip generous amounts of chai, draw deeply on the hookah pipe, and toss the dice across the backgammon board with fervor.

This took time and patience.

Possessing little of the latter was my problem.

If I would’ve stepped outside the small world created in an even smaller head, perhaps I wouldn't have felt as disheartened about my initial lack of friendships.

From the rock in the middle of the river, it made sense.

It’s irrational to be vulnerable with a passing stranger.

By doing so, you set yourself up to be hurt, waste time, and experience disappointment.

Then again, sometimes the best relationships aren’t rational at all.

The Enhancer: the time you have to form relationships.

You know when you're on a flight, and the person next to you shares their entire life story? Maybe you are that person? In which case, push that button, old sport; I'll be needing another drink.

That’s exactly how relationships can be on the road.

Due to the restricted time and the fact you’ll likely never see this person again, vulnerability becomes the default. Because, why not? What do you have to lose?

Small talk is the stale bread tossed to the birds. There’s no need to offer cookie-cutter remarks on the pleasantness of today’s weather.

So grab a beer, dig into the meat and potatoes–the subjects you otherwise might be suppressing with your routine crowd.

This is your opportunity to articulate yourself without the customary social, cultural and personal limitations that you abide by at home.

It’s therapeutic.

I was in Mostar resting for a couple nights before continuing my walk to Mount Athos.

The usual Heads of the Hydra were all present.

The Lost Soul, the Sustainability Poster Child whose wrath rains down on anyone not considerate enough to pack bamboo straws and cutlery, the Country Counter who’s happy to leave without meeting a local friend, the Resident Backpacker (opposite of the Country Counter, this lad has been in the hostel for last 8 months, as evident by his labeled toothbrush cup in the shared bathroom).

All interesting cats, with whom I usually enjoy exchanging stories. But given that this stop was in the middle of my walkabout, I had swapped my default Hydra Head (the Instigator with a Toothpick) for a more subtle archetype: the Peaceful Pilgrim.

To dodge the whirlwind of the burgeoning late-night antics, I slipped on my boots and was heading for the door, when a voice stopped me.

“Mind if I join?”

His head was wrapped tight with a red bandana and a pack of smokes was rolled tighter into his sleeve.

He sported one of those blue jumpsuits that mechanics usually wear, which didn't seem functional by any roadworthy standard, but it oozed a certain coolness—James Dean coolness—and that counted for something.

His left eye bore the weight of swelling and was encircled in deep purple hues.

Describing his nose as merely “broken” would be a lazy disservice. This thing had been thoroughly smashed, twisted, rendered uneven from every angle, and then twisted once more. The most shocking part? There was still a tiny sliver of air, managing to defy all odds, as it squeezed through this intricate labyrinth of battered cartilage.

One couldn’t help but feel a sense of pity for the air. You wanted to root for it.

Yet, his face betrayed no pity. In fact, he appeared entirely indifferent to the shattered bones and Picasso-painted nose.

Totally cool.

“I’m Matt, but everyone calls me Guts.”

While my appearance wasn’t nearly as spartan, the several weeks of walking provided me with my own seat at the table of grisly road-worn looks.

My beard hadn't seen the sharp end of a razor in six weeks, my nails had dirt permanently lodged under them, and my sweat-stained wool hat struggled to keep down the flaring ends of an overgrown mullet.

Clint Eastwood-cool?

“Guts, [nod] I’m Zane. People just call me Zane.”

Our rugged personas undoubtedly attracted attention, as evidenced by the suddenly hushed atmosphere in the eternally noisy hostel lounge. The Hydra Heads quivered at the sight of such a menacing duo.

Prolonging these facades was tempting, but truth be told, they collapsed as soon as drinks hit the table.

Vulnerability became our pact.

He’d recently had his face smashed in by thugs while trying to defend someone. Afterwards, he dragged himself to the nearest source of help, which turned out to be a hauntingly eerie old Soviet hospital, staffed by spine-chilling (Picasso inspired?) nurses who more or less fixed him.

While he was being fed goulash by a straw, I was sleeping under a bus stop bench.

This became my resting place after a frantic escape from a pack of rabid dogs that had chased me off the trail and into a dense mountain forest. A forest that, unbeknownst to me at first, hid undetonated mines from the days of the Yugoslav Wars.

(I only figured this out after stumbling past a fallen red sign that simply read, “MINE!” with a rather distressed-looking skull and crossbones figure.)

We both needed someone to talk to. And another round of negronis.

“Can I join you on your walk?”

I was leaving in the morning. His shoes wouldn’t make it.

“Don’t worry. I’ll buy boots tomorrow.”

And he did.

The days that followed, we trekked to the highest village in Bosnia and Herzegovina, drank goat’s milk out of wooden mugs, and pushed each other to cover over 30 miles on a single-day descent into the country’s capital, Sarajevo.

Han Solo x Chewbacca
Riggs x Murtaugh
Guts x Zane

While we travelers may struggle to provide commitment over time, we make up for with vulnerability.

This is how we build trust.

Guts and I only shared two days, yet in that span, our connection grew into what felt like years of friendship.

Occasionally, letters arrive from him, serving as anchors to a time that feels as tangible as a dream.

Last I heard, he's still sporting a red bandana, but now as a chef in a Michelin-star restaurant.

The status of his schnoz remains a mystery; he hasn’t said a word.

So either it’s miraculously straightened out, or he’s accepted his fate of forever looking like a rugged and road-worn James Dean.

I’ve got a feeling it’s the latter.

11. Escaping the Traveler’s Island of Misery (Battling the Sirens)

"Tell me about a complicated man. Muse, tell me how he wandered and was lost…”

–Homer, The Odyssey

There's a hostel archetype I’ve yet to mention.

The only thing rarer than them leaving the hostel is them contributing to the atmosphere within the hostel.

To the eyes of a novice vagabond, their manner often appears unfathomable. To a higher-level rogue, their characteristics are instantly recognizable.

You might see them in the communal kitchen, typically with headphones on as they prepare dinner for one. Or spot them in the lounge’s corner, their faces bathed in the screen’s glow, quietly revealing hints of inner turmoil and discontent.

If you’ve observed these patterns in one of your fellow hostel comrades, you’ve encountered a “Humdrum Bum”.

Every Humdrum Bums left home with the same giddy feeling of excitement as everyone else, but somewhere in the vast Sea of Adventure, the deceiving Sirens called out and stole their sense of wanderlust.

Now, most of their days are spent between the hostel kitchen and the bedroom.

This behavior is most frequently induced by states of loneliness, homesickness, and travel burnout—three conditions that typically don't develop until a considerable amount of time has passed on the road.

During my early days as a land pirate, I encountered a few Humdrum Bums and could never fathom how they rationalized simply 'loafing around' (as I deemed it back then). An exotic land awaited exploration, and there they were, moping around in their PJs all day, showing more interest in the back of their cereal boxes than with their fellow travelers sitting across from them.

I was dreadfully unsympathetic at the time.

Little did I know, it would soon be my turn to set sail for the Traveler’s Island of Misery.

This is not an island with sandy beaches, cheap beers, and barefoot-tapping discos.

This is an island of misery.

The beaches are rocky, jagged, and full of washed up vagabonds who drifted ashore after too many aimless months abroad.

Once you realize you are on the Traveler’s Island of Misery, a voice will say:

“Hmm. Suddenly, I’m a bit miserable. But wait! That doesn’t make sense? I’m finally living the dream I worked so hard for! Yet, I can’t help but feel miserable.”

As valid as this thought may be, it’s not yours. It’s coming from the Sirens. And the goal of the Sirens is to lure you off your course and devour you.

If you listen to the Siren’s song long enough, you will get a promotion on the island:

You’ll join the ranks of the Humdrum Bums.

The muscly man on the boat? No.
That’s me in the corner.
*The Sirens and Ulysses,* by William Etty

Don’t wait on a warm welcome from the other miserable pirates.

The island is a desolate place. Every soul here grapples with the same set of afflictions, while simultaneously humming to the Siren’s song, ‘no one could ever possibly understand my woes’.

In a stark contrast to the vulnerability we travelers are famous for, we instead close ourselves off to anyone offering a helping hand.

Some may even rationalize this decision by convincing themselves that loneliness is the fate of all road runners–the necessary sacrifice for freedom.

This is yet another seductive call of the Sirens. The more of their songs you heed, the more of their thoughts you believe, the more challenging it becomes to escape the island.

Eleven months into my journey, the toxic melodies of the Sirens were echoing off the walls of my mind.

(Forgive me, Odysseus, not all of us keep a loyal crew and buckets of beeswax at the ready)

My energy waned, followed by my curiosity, and as a final blow, my intuition decided to take a vacation. Color was stripped from life. Everything looked the same, felt the same, tasted the same. Everyone seemed to be having the same conversation, one I never managed to grasp the importance of.

So there I sat, the Humdrum Bum of Istanbul. Lost, lonely, and still eating kebabs.

This was no way to travel, let alone live. My time on the island needed to end. Did I take a page out of Jack Sparrow’s book and escape on the back of a sea turtle with a bottle of rum?

Yes. If the sea turtle was a plane for Tbilisi, Georgia, and the rum was Turkish beer.

Was this the most courageous escape?

Wrong question! Reference Labor 8.

Can a flight change your mental state?

Contrary to the saying, 'Wherever you go, there you are,' it’s been my experience that a physical transition can initiate a shift in the mental.

The change in environment lifted my mood, revitalizing my enthusiasm for activities beyond the confines of hostel walls. I found myself exploring museums, wandering until my day became interesting, and participating in social mixers. Engaging in these pursuits not only rekindled my curiosity but also restored my mental equilibrium.

It wasn’t a perfect solution.

Jumping on a plane when a problem arises is impractical for most. For the few it is, it likely won’t remain a realistic option forever.

Nonetheless, there’s no nobility in refusing low-hanging fruit when mental well-being is at stake.

“Write off your hopes, and if your well-being matters to you, be your own savior while you can.”

–Marcus Aurelius, Meditations

Tbilisi was a charming city, full of passionate people, hot bread, and good wine, but my inner longing for solitude beckoned. It seemed as though 95% of my mind had escaped the Traveler’s Island of Misery with the flight, but to liberate the rest I had questions that demanded answers.

I thumbed a ride on the side of a highway and seven hours later found myself at the foot of a monastery in the mountains.

It could have been the setting sun and my blatant lack of a second option, or perhaps an intuitive recognition of the hunger in my eyes for reflection and answers. Regardless of the reason, the monks offered me refuge and a haven for introspection.

I thought about my life as a vagabond; a journey spanning nearly 400 days. I thought about the Labors, particularly those I could’ve endured more gracefully. And I thought about whether or not it was time to go home.

I observed the monks, dedicating their remaining days to prayer, knowing they would never return home. I remembered Joe, who hadn't gone home in five years, drifting wherever the winds carried him.

The monks bore countenances of bliss, whereas Joe’s was one of sadness.

Why? What was the difference?

Unlike the monks bound to their monastery, Joe had opportunities for new experiences whenever and wherever he liked. Unlike Joe, the monks had a strong sense of community. Or maybe the emotional contrast could be attributed to a difference in age, or cultural background?

There isn’t one answer, but if there were, it would be the nature of their purposes.

The monks focused on a singular devotion, steadfast and simple. Joe’s pursuits were akin to Kerouac’s style of “chasing kicks,” driven by a perpetual quest for novelty. One path was rooted in service, the other in pleasure.

I’ve walked both, weaving between and exploring their extremities, all in my search for a better way to live. People admire these phases of self-discovery, but truth be told, they are exhausting, especially when you knew the right way from the start.

When I became a vagabond, I picked a path.

No more wasted time.

No more aimlessness.

That, in essence, defined this journey: extended, deliberate travel as a pathway towards realizing my fullest potential.

I also made a promise to myself to return home only after developing into a significantly better man.

Somewhere along the way, I’d lost sight of that promise, or more accurately, chose to ignore it.

Progress was made in the realm of self-improvement, but my funds had yet to run dry.

More adventures, more “kicks,” were still within reach, particularly since the endlessly fascinating Levant was only a $100 flight away.

Nonetheless, becoming a better man was only part of the mission. The promise remained unfulfilled.

It was time to return home as that better man, equipped with an increased ability to serve my family, friends, and strangers.

This was my purpose, and in its recollection, was the key to freeing myself from the Traveler’s Island of Misery.

“Indeed, as long as you are ignorant of what you should avoid or seek, or of what is necessary or superfluous, or of what is right or wrong, you will not be traveling, but merely wandering”

–Seneca,

Letters from a Stoic

12. Returning Home

*Farnese Hercules* (depicted after the 12 Labors)

I’m writing this from my parent’s house. The same house I lived in before the journey.

This weekend, I’ll punch the clock at a restaurant. The same restaurant I worked at to save for the journey.

My hours are the same. My work is the same. The smells are the same.

Transitioning into the exact routine I was so proud of breaking free from, wasn’t exactly my idea of a hero's return home.

Odysseus slayed the suitors and rejoined Penelope. Hercules ended his 12-Labor servitude after capturing Cerberus and ascended from the Underworld. And here I am, yet again, trying to explain why as an Italian restaurant we don’t serve chicken alfredo.

They say comparisons are odious, which is probably true if the discourse involves mythological characters whose tales have captivated audiences for over two millennia.

Nevertheless, perfectly lateral transitions can render past experiences dreamlike.

I returned to family and friends. They asked how the trip was. Not knowing how to answer that question, I’d respond with a simple “good” or “it was fun,” which somehow always sufficed. Then it was my turn to ask what was new–usually nothing was new. And so, the day unfolded as it always had, to the familiar beat of routine.

The day of the week mattered again. Weeks blurred together, months melted away, and the end of the year will unsurprisingly arrive faster than ever before.

People are busy. More is being done. Yet not much has changed. Home feels both fast and slow. Fast and stagnant, maybe.

Routines streamline efficiency, simplify existence, and rot our perception of time.

Time suffocates under the rigid grip of predictability.

These were a few of the realizations that struck me upon returning home.

There were others, like all decisions suddenly needing to be rational. And an obsession to quantify everything. As if experiences were worthless unless they could be distilled into a number or clean bullet point on a resume.

These are not novel observations.

In The Hero With A Thousand Faces, Joseph Cambell describes this stage as:

“The first problem of the returning hero is to accept as real, after an experience of the soul-satisfying vision of fulfillment, the passing joys and sorrows, banalities and the noisy obscenities of life.”

What was interesting is that I never noticed these patterns before, which naturally prompted the question: What else is so deeply ingrained in my life that it escapes my perception?

“The only true voyage of discovery, the only fountain of Eternal Youth, would be not to visit strange lands but to possess other eyes…”

–Marcel Proust,

In Search of Lost Time

While life at home resumed as if I was only gone a weekend, nothing was the same.

My parent’s house, my work, the people, and daily life all appeared different from the versions etched in my memory. I couldn’t recall them being so exotic. In fact, I knew they weren't. Home was never interesting. Home was just home.

For 24 years, the marvel hidden in the most ordinary scenes remained invisible to me.

It required journeying through “strange lands” to finally unveil the significance of seeing through new eyes. As a result, I’ve come to realize that home was always as fascinating as any far-off destination.

This realization sparks tension with my earlier ones.

On one hand, I am finally noticing the richness that home always offered. On the other, I am watching my time squeeze away under the numbing embrace of comfortable routines.

This is the Labor of Returning Home.

What you experience as a vagabond, glimpsing the “fountain of Eternal Youth,” is both a blessing and a curse.

If I were to choose an easier path, lose faith in my intuition because it’s not considered rational, or start measuring every facet of life to project and compare value with the faceless mob, I’d forsake everything 12 months as a vagabond stood for. I would fail the people I set out to serve. I would fall short in realizing my full potential, failing myself.

So you see dear reader, there exists no path of retreat; forward beckons as the last frontier.

The sails are set, guiding the vessel back into the boundless sea of unknown, where herculean Labors await, destined to magnify as obligations inevitably begin to encroach upon youth's singularity.

Perhaps then, the hero’s journey is only just beginning…

—ZJ

“It is not society that is to guide and save the creative hero, but precisely the reverse. And so every one of us shares the supreme ordeal–carries the cross of the redeemer–not in the bright moments of his tribe's great victories, but in the silences of his personal despair.”

–Joseph Cambell,

The Hero With A Thousand Faces

***

A great thanks to Charles Ferguson and Yasmine Jarecke, my editors and family, for their countless revisions on this series. Without them, this would have been a much longer and far less interesting process.

12 Labors of 12 Months a Vagabond (Finale)