🎅 An Introduction to Nomad Santa

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.

 

🎅 An Introduction to Nomad Santa

They call me Nomad Santa. Not because I hand out presents—though I’ve been known to share a snack or a story—but because I wander. Airport to airport, city to city, country to country. And yes, I’ve got the beard.

Once, in a lounge in Dublin, I dozed off between flights. Next thing I know, I feel a tiny poke on my arm. I open one eye and see a four-year-old boy, grinning like he just struck gold. His mom rushed over, mortified.
“He thought he found Santa,” she whispered.

I get that a lot—especially in December.
Wide-eyed kids peeking from behind suitcases, unsure whether to wave or whisper their wish list. And truth be told, I don’t mind one bit.

Nomad Santa didn’t begin as a character. He began as… me.

It started with travel. A lot of it. Dozens of countries, hundreds of flights, and thousands of chance encounters. Somewhere along the way—thanks to a white beard, a twinkle in my eye, and a habit of noticing people—children started calling me Santa. Not in December. Not at the North Pole. But in taxis in Istanbul, food stalls in Bangkok, boarding gates in Sydney, and cafés in Seattle.

The name stuck. But more than that, it became a way of being.

Because Nomad Santa isn’t about gifts—not the kind you wrap, anyway.
It’s about stories. About showing up. About noticing the small, quiet moments that connect us.

The stories I share here—sometimes funny, sometimes tender, sometimes quietly profound—aren’t made up. They’re fragments of real life. Some take place at 35,000 feet. Others in hospital rooms, train stations, or silent glances between strangers. None of them are fiction.

They’re not told to impress. They’re told to remind:

There is still kindness in the world.
There is still wonder.
There is still time to notice.

It’s about carrying this message, wherever I go:

It’s a small world—and we’re all neighbors.