I am sitting on a veranda in the California sunshine, typing up a story about my last two months living in Los Angeles.

I am not new to odysseys, journeys where I leave home for months at a time. I’ve travelled and worked and played around Europe, and Bali, and many places that called my name when I needed a change.

I know I bring my emotional baggage with me wherever I go — crammed in the 28-inch seatback of my Spirit airlines flight, wrapped in the folds of a too-thin comforter on the too-cramped couch I’m crashing on. It is a loneliness that knows no zip code.