I never thought of myself as a fussy person.
But when Brent and I lived in Seattle before we became nomads in late 2017, I did have my share of quirks.
I liked always having a fully stocked kitchen — much to Brent’s annoyance, who used to employ an Eat-Everything-You-Own-Before-You-Shop-Again method of weight control.
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I liked certain brands of food, particularly Ben & Jerry’s Vegan Mint Chocolate Cookie Ice Cream. And Adams Natural Crunchy Peanut Butter. And everything Trader Joe’s.
I was also particular about the gym I went to. I wanted a lot of light, not to be stuck in a basement like a mole person. And I insisted on one kind of upright exercise bike that didn’t hurt my back.
Oh, I also liked a really nice bed. Brent called me the Princess and the Pea, and he wasn’t wrong.
Okay, maybe I was a little bit fussy.
But seven years of nomading has changed me. I think I’m much less fussy now. Which isn’t to say it didn’t take me a while to get here.
Our first nomad stop was a coliving spot in Miami’s Little Havana neighborhood.
This was our gym:
THERE WAS NO GYM! It was just a morning exercise class.
On the plus side, at least there was plenty of light. Better yet, I genuinely enjoyed the class and barely missed my exercise bike.
Fussy-Me found much more annoying things at our second stop Birgu, Malta. Our home was essentially a medieval castle, which was really interesting.
But it was also a dump. A stove that appeared to have never been cleaned? A mattress on the floor? And endless mosquitoes? How could there be mosquitoes? Malta literally has no natural bodies of fresh water!
How I moaned and groaned.
Then, for our third nomad-stop, we moved to Matera in southern Italy.
It was also coliving, and our tiny bed was terrible. Plus, we had the stuffy attic room with no air conditioning during a brutally hot July. That meant we had to keep the window open, which meant that all night long, I had to listen to the loud noises from the gas station right next door.
Here is where I went full-on fussy. The morning after that first night, I was on my phone frantically trying to change our plane tickets. The only reason we didn’t is because we’d paid for our month’s lodging in advance, no refunds, and Brent insisted we give it at least a few more days.
Which is a good thing because we ended up loving Matera and the people we met. It even led to our creating the 72-hour rule to keep us from making snap travel judgments.
Our next nomading stop was Bansko, Bulgaria — and, well, our apartment caught on fire. Even Brent got fussy then.
Also, the only gym in town didn’t have my kind of bike, was boiling hot, and dark. I hated it and made sure Brent knew.
I fussed a bit less in the years that followed. But I still fussed.
One time in Hungary, we did a house-sit, and the owner casually informed us upon arrival that the kitchen faucet didn’t work, so we had to spend six weeks doing our dishes in the bathtub.
Leaving us without a kitchen sink was a crappy thing to do, but I might have carried on about it a bit too much. It wasn’t like I worked twelve hours a day in the fields.
Flash forward to 2024.
Brent and I are currently living in Fethiye, Turkey, for six weeks, and the one gym within walking distance is total crap. Like worse-than-the-gym-in-Bansko crap.
It’s on the third floor of a retail building, yet somehow almost no light reaches inside. Everything is painted black, making it that much darker.
A quarter of the weight machines are broken: pulleys are snapped, the pins to adjust the weights are missing, and the seats and armrests are cracked with the insides coming out.
And did I mention the holes in the wall and electrical wires protruding from various places?
Oh, and not only don’t they have “my” exercise bike, the bikes don’t even turn on — all you can do is control the tension a bit to make it a little harder to pedal.
Here’s the thing: none of this is bothering me. Like, at all.
Partly, it’s because I’m grateful even to have a gym. During our month in Istanbul, there were no nearby gyms, and I could not get some exercise anywhere else.
More than that, I’ve changed. I’m much less likely now to focus on — or even see — the negative.
Can I walk to the gym from our apartment here in Fethiye? Can I manage to get in a decent workout? Yes and yes. So the rest of it doesn’t matter all that much.
I’ve also learned to live without Adams Natural Crunchy Peanut Butter, Trader Joe’s, or Ben & Jerry’s Vegan Ice Cream. I’m lactose-intolerant, but here in Fethiye, I can’t get any non-dairy ice cream.
On the other hand, street vendors sell dondurma, a wonderful ice cream made from goat milk that I can eat.
And there’s a twice-weekly public market down the block that sells fresh fruit and vegetables, all kinds of delicious roasted nuts, plus olives, Turkish Delight, and so much more. It’s way better than any Trader Joe’s.
Being nomadic does mean putting up with a fair number of crappy beds. About half the time, I’ll at least buy new pillows. But the bad beds themselves?
Que sera sera. Besides, there’s always the couch.
What’s different about me now? Why am I so much less fussy?
Well, it’s partly that these crappy beds are in fantastic locations like Bangkok, Antwerp, or the Swiss Alps. But I’ve also toughened up.
It’s too hot? Too loud? A crappy gym? No working sink?
Since we’re nomadic, whatever the problem is, it’s only temporary — by definition. This, too, shall pass.
And it always does. The experience vanishes from memory right after we leave — or the alchemical magic of time transforms it into a funny story.
With each passing year, I’ve also learned to value different things.
The nice gym I thought I needed? I’d much rather be within walking distance of the Pirin Mountains in Bansko — or tuk-tuk distance of Bangkok’s Chinatown.
I think about how much I loved Trader Joe’s dried mango. But it seems silly now that I’ve lived in Thailand, Vietnam, and Malaysia where I can have actual fresh mango every single day. And those glorious mango shakes!
I’ve also loved discovering foods I’ve never tasted — ones I didn’t even know existed! — like ajvar in Macedonia, khinkali dumplings in Georgia, and Vietnamese Egg Coffee.
Mind you, I’m not perfect: I occasionally still fuss. I hated our 2022 stay in Novi Sad, Serbia — and I wasn’t shy about letting the world know all the reasons why.
But most of the time, I think I keep things more in perspective. Honestly, I wish I’d had this understanding back when Brent and I lived in Seattle.
Long-term travel is good at helping people see their true priorities. It’s helped me see what’s genuinely important.
Being less fussy has definitely made me a better traveler. It might also have made me a better person.
Michael Jensen is a screenwriter, author, and half of a couple of traveling gay digital nomads. Subscribe to their free travel newsletter here.
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