✈️🍷 The Wine Incident

My car was broken into again. That’s two times in ten days. No smashed windows, no alarm—just the quiet violation of someone rummaging through my things while the world slept.

The first time, they left everything in disarray but didn’t take anything—probably because there wasn’t anything of value to take. This time, they upped the ante. Drained the battery somehow, so I had to call for a tow. And this time, they left me a gift: a pile of break-in tools, a handful of keys, and a burnt glass pipe—clear evidence of drug use.

One of the keys belongs to a mailbox right here on the property.

Now, maybe that mailbox key belonged to another victim—someone who, like me, was just unlucky. But another thought lingers in the back of my mind: Have I found the perpetrator? Did they break into my car… and unknowingly leave behind a trail that leads right back to them?

I filed a police report, more for the paper trail than out of any expectation. I’ve played this game before. The complex says there’s security at night, but I’ve yet to see a soul. Not even a flashlight beam in the dark.

And here’s the thing—this is the part that stings a little deeper: I want to believe these people are my neighbors. I want Nomad Santa to say that. But I’m struggling.

Part of me wants to shake them by the shoulders and shout, “Can’t you find something better to do with your life?” Another part of me thinks of all the scam calls, the phishing emails, the fake tech support lines targeting seniors (like me). There’s this rising tide of desperation masquerading as hustle.

“Get a job,” people say. But what if your mind is swimming in chemicals? What if your past has anchored you to the bottom? What if your “Sitz im Leben”—your place in life—is a storm-damaged raft drifting with no land in sight?

Homelessness. Addiction. Mental illness. It’s a mess we haven’t figured out yet. A wicked, tangled problem.

And I—Nomad Santa—sit here with a handful of someone else’s keys, wondering what door they no longer open.

I’m angry. But I’m also sad. And maybe a little tired.

But I’m not giving up. Not on my neighbors. Not yet.

This is Nomad Santa, reminding you: In this small world, we’re all neighbors.

A Nomad Santa Reflection

I was on my way home from a mission. One of those long-haul flights where the cabin lights dim, and dinner service feels almost ceremonial.
I decided to allow myself a small indulgence — a glass of red wine with dinner. Nothing fancy. Just a plastic cup, filled three-quarters of the way. I was in an aisle seat, finally relaxing, when a man heading for the restroom brushed past and bumped my elbow. Half the wine leapt from the cup and landed squarely in my lap.
He froze, muttered a flurry of apologies, and hurried off to the lavatory to fetch paper towels.
I sat there, dabbing at the spill, trying not to look too bothered. My phone, meanwhile, was mounted to one of those clip-on devices attached to the seat back in front of me — perfectly positioned for a bit of dinnertime entertainment.
As I reached to adjust something, turbulence (or karma) did its thing. The phone popped out of the holder, dropped like a stone, and landed squarely on my cup, knocking it over and spilling the rest of the wine into my lap.
I didn’t move. Just stared at the growing red blotch with the stillness of someone who’d reached the far end of protest.
The woman across the aisle leaned over and said with a smile, “Rough day, huh?”
Without waiting for an answer, she jumped up, raced for the bathroom to fetch more paper towels like a seasoned first responder.
A few minutes later, the flight attendant arrived with dinner — a surprisingly decent pan-fried steak, the kind that might’ve passed for a slider if they’d handed me a bun.
She looked at me, then the lap, and asked gently, “Would you like another wine?”
I paused for a beat… then nodded.
Because sometimes, when the universe dumps wine in your lap—twice—you just raise your cup and toast it anyway.

It’s a small world—and we’re all neighbors. Even when you’re wearing your beverage.