A half-Colombian, half-Panamanian man once told me that 33 is an excellent age.

“It’s when Jesus died, bro,” he told me as he stood shirtless outside his surf shop one sweaty morning on Panama’s Caribbean coast. “I was just a surf bum without any money saved, but when I turned 33, I started getting my life together.”

I am 32 years and eight months old, so it’s encouraging to know that I can fuck around for another four months until I need to start taking life more ‘seriously.’ Age 32 has been unique for me in that I have spent most of it at ‘home’ in California, or at least what most closely resembles home when you live out of a backpack. For age 30 I was abroad for all but three weeks. I turned 30 in Brazil and 31 on Reunion Island. For age 31 I was abroad for all but four months, turning 32 in Panama just a few days before the encounter with the wise Panamanian man.

But I’ve been back stateside since June, almost six months save for a small trip to the Olympics in Tahiti and a quick weekend in Canada jammed in the middle. Returning to ‘living’ in California has reminded me of a recurring theme that I have mentioned many times on this blog throughout my travels; it has to do with one’s perception of time.

I came across a quote recently, and I can’t remember where, but it goes along the lines of: “Routine collapses time, and novelty unfolds it.” I don’t know who said it first but there are a million spin-offs of this cliché. Writing mentors have always told me to avoid using clichés, but, on the other hand, clichés have become cliché for a reason. They resonate with the human experience generation after generation and remain relevant even as the world around us continues to change. I will defiantly use them when I feel like it.

Thus, time has begun to speed up again here in the U.S. Thirty-two felt like it went by faster than 30 and 31. Coming home, I jumped back into my routine. Every time I went to bed, I knew exactly what I was going to eat when I woke up the next morning. I adapted to the schedules of my social circle and peers which made the term “weekend” reassume the connotation it had when I was working an office job. As I bounced around time zones with remote work, the work week never felt like it had a defined start and end. But living in California has naturally sent me back into the M-F, 8-5 schedule.

I had a laundry list of items on my to-do list when I returned home. I finally was able to get my hands on the physical proof copies of my father’s book and push that scary “publish” button that doesn’t allow any further changes. I got my motorcycle license even though I don’t have a motorcycle. It’ll come in handy someday. I’m an uncle now and I was finally able to meet my niece. I itched the urge to escape into the mountains of California and reset the countdown for when my camping gear (stored in the U.S.) beckons once again. As I felt my fringe Portuguese vocab words slipping from my reachable memory bank, I re-enlisted myself in classes online to keep up my level — another slot on my calendar to shape a routine.

The point is, my perception of time sped up amid obligations, repetition, and familiarity. It’s not necessarily good or bad — just an observation.

And damn is life expensive in California. Every time I come back it tests my willpower to pursue a career in writing. But every time I start to think it’s time to throw in the towel in lieu of a realistic career that is not in a state of decline, the world sends me signs to carry on.

The first sign: The founder of a small newspaper reached out to me out of the blue and told me he likes my writing. Maybe he’s a mind-reader and knew I needed to hear that.

The second: Another person told me with a straight face that they think my father’s book is a NYT bestseller. Well, wouldn’t that be nice?

The third: I stumbled across my old Portuguese textbook from almost ten years ago and a piece of paper fell out where I had written my travel goals, long before I started the nomad lifestyle. Some of the goals on the list were:

• Learn new languages
• Get authentic experiences
• Live simply
• Explore new careers
• Step out of my comfort zone
• Make a difference
• Don’t put $ over happiness
• Read
• Improve my writing and find a challenging project

Damn. Even though I can say that I actually checked off each of those goals in different ways throughout my trip, they are still relevant today.

Finally, while reading through some old correspondence that my late grandfather had written, I discovered a few interesting facts. I knew my paternal grandparents were writers, but I didn’t know they literally met in journalism class at college. And I didn’t know that my grandfather went to Los Angeles to cover the 1932 Olympics as a young reporter. Imagine if he knew that 92 years in the future his grandchild would be doing the exact same thing at the 2024 Olympics for a sport that he had probably never heard of (surfing).

It’s too soon to throw in the towel. Not before I’m 33!

I read a book this fall called “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance” that also touches on this concept of time. It’s about a father and son who take a motorcycle trip across the country and the author weaves his deep knowledge of philosophy into everything they do and see. Personally, I felt the philosophy explanations dragged on way too long (maybe a philosophy intellectual would fare better) but there were a few moments in the book that spoke to me.

As they observe people working at a cafe in Oregon, the author says, “We keep passing through little moments of other people’s lives.”

As I wrap up this six-month homestand, that moment in the book resonates. It sums up the essence of travel well. A trip is just a collage of moments of other people’s lives that are interjected into your own; a taxi driver currently fast asleep on the other side of the world, a surfer who is checking his local break, or another traveler who is, unbeknownst to me, mapping out a trip to the same location. Once you leave, parts of their story become yours. This is part of the novelty that slows down time.

Stage four of “The Trip” starts today. It’s been three years now, a bit longer than the six months that I originally forecasted. But The Trip has a funny way of speaking to me, letting me know when it’s time to turn a page and start a new chapter. I’m off to Morocco on another one of my trademark one-way flights. Presumably, time will grind back to a crawl as I have to re-think every morning what will become of each day. Or maybe it won’t. Who knows? All I do know is that I’ll start 2025 as a nomadic writer. I’ll have two surfboards and a computer that has been resuscitated from death twice. I consider that a privilege.