In 2016, I gave up my apartment. I gave away almost everything I owned. I put the rest in storage and reduced my life to two duffel bags.
On December 31st, I flew to Mexico City and spent my first new years away from home. Away from friends and family. Away from everything I’d ever known.
In month one, I went on a side trip to Cuba and pissed off everyone I traveled with.
In month two, I took an ill-advised road trip through Colombia and, at one point, genuinely feared for my life.
In month three, I got into a drunk screaming match with someone over a game of tejo, causing a rift in a friendship that would take months to repair.
In month four, I said something terrible to someone in anger and alienated myself from many people in my Meraki tribe.
In month five, I froze my ass off in a cabin in the Argentine Sierras.
I month six, I had to dip into my savings while trying to afford life in Buenos Aires. I paid over $800 in bribes to get a laptop out of customs.
In month seven, I had an...