I’m cat sitting for a stranger in a nice apartment in the
historic Gastown district of Vancouver. She's not a complete stranger. We did meet
once so she could give me the keys and make the feline introductions. Still I
know virtually nothing about her other than her name and she knows very little
about me. A common friend made the necessary introductions and assurances. Last
year at this time I was cat sitting for someone else. It appears that this is
what I do during the month of June. It was twelve months ago that I began my
experiment in living without a permanent address. Reducing my life into a much
simpler form so it fit easily into a hotel room. I had thought I might spend
three months in that arrangement and then find another place to live. Yet I
still have no fixed address other than room 103 and that is only as permanent
as a hotel room can be.
I stopped by the hotel earlier today to grab a book and realized
I missed my little space. I missed it in the way a person misses their bed
while on vacation. I missed the personal connection to space. I missed the
interactions with the community of people I have gotten to know that surround
Room 103. The stylish Gastown apartment is beautiful but I have no connection
to it or its occupants (my furry roommates). I feel like an intruder—the kind
of intruder who cleans and cares for pets.
