Travel Trends

By the time Lena’s backpack tore at the seams in a Manila hostel, she had lived in thirteen countries in five years.

Not visited. Lived. Worked from. Slept in. Bought groceries and paid Wi-Fi in. It started with Bali, then Lisbon, Chiang Mai, Tbilisi. Cities where coworking spaces sprouted like mushrooms and cafes served oat milk lattes with a side of sunset.

She was part of a generation that had traded mortgages for mobility. "Home is where the Wi-Fi connects automatically," read the sticker on her laptop. It used to feel clever. Now it just felt... empty.

It wasn’t burnout, exactly. She still loved the movement, the rhythm of novelty. But lately, there was a question she couldn’t shake: Where do I belong?

It began with a minor hiccup.

Lena was boarding a flight from Bangkok to Seoul when the check-in agent frowned.

"Your visa is expiring," she said.

Lena smiled. "I know. I have a 30-day visa on arrival in Korea."

The agent hesitated, tapping. "I’m sorry, but it looks like your entry into Thailand wasn’t properly recorded. There’s a mismatch in the system."

Lena frowned. She’d entered legally. She had photos, receipts, her Airbnb booking.

But bureaucracy didn't care about your Instagram archive.

They pulled her aside. Hours passed. She was denied boarding. Told to visit the immigration office.

At the Bangkok Immigration Bureau, the fluorescent lights buzzed like mosquitoes. A man in a stiff uniform reviewed her passport, flipping through its colorful collage of stamps.

“You have no fixed address?”

“I move often. I work remotely,” she explained.

“No tax home. No residency. No national insurance registration.”

“I’m a digital nomad.”

He sighed. “That’s not a legal status.”

It hit her like a cold slap.

For years, she’d existed in visa loops and temporary stays, never staying long enough to require permanent paperwork. She hadn’t realized how precarious it all was—until now.

Her bank flagged her account due to “suspicious international activity.”

Her freelance platform froze her profile, requesting a permanent address and local tax ID.

She listed her parents' address in Canada. But when they called, her mother was confused. “You don’t live here, do you?”

“No, but it’s... still home?”

Silence.

Lena stared at the ceiling that night in a cheap hostel bed. Her entire life fit into a 50-liter backpack and a cloud drive. She had no lease. No roots. No one waiting for her.

Freedom had a shadow no one warned her about.

She tried to fly to Vietnam next. Rejected again.

“No proof of onward travel. No evidence of local ties,” the officer said.

“I’ve been there three times,” Lena argued.

He shrugged. “Rules changed.”

She sat at the airport café for hours, crying quietly between sips of lukewarm tea. Her phone buzzed with travel reels and remote work memes.

“Work from anywhere!”

“Life is a vacation!”

But where did “anywhere” end? What happened when the world stopped letting you in?

She booked a flight back to Canada.

Except—her Canadian passport had expired six months ago.

Renewing it from abroad would take months. She’d never stayed in one place long enough for the process. She always thought she’d get around to it.

Now, her only identity document was a digital copy and a few scanned papers in Google Drive.

It didn’t feel real.

Was she even a citizen anymore?

Lena rented a studio apartment in Bangkok with the last of her savings. It was the first time in years she had a lease in her name.

She stopped moving. Stopped uploading photos. Stopped pretending she had answers.

She watched people from her window—street vendors, kids on bikes, old women watering plants. Locals. Residents. People whose feet had learned the shape of one place.

She wanted that. Not just a bed, but a belonging.

One day, she visited a lawyer. Explained everything.

The woman nodded patiently. “You’re not alone,” she said. “More and more people like you. Stateless in practice, if not by law.”

“What do I do?”

“Stay. Register. Start over.”

The words frightened her. Start over.

But maybe that was what she needed.

Lena applied for a long-term residency visa. She found a part-time job teaching English. She got a library card. A phone number with a local code. She bought a secondhand bicycle.

Months passed. Her Canadian passport arrived at the embassy. When she held it again, she didn’t feel relief. Just a strange distance.

She’d spent years chasing freedom, believing roots were cages.

Now, she was learning they could also be anchors.

She still worked remotely. Still loved travel.

But now, she traveled from somewhere. A place she called home. Not forever, maybe—but for now.

One night, she sat at her tiny kitchen table, filling out a form for health insurance. She paused at the box marked "Permanent Address".

She wrote it down without hesitation.

And for the first time in years, she felt something settle in her chest.

Not loss. Not fear.

Belongings

The end.