Life of a one man traveling circus

1

Another hotel room. Riyadh this time, but does it even matter? I could be anywhere, really. The walls are the same shade of beige, the bed is just a touch too soft, and I’m greeted by that indistinct hotel room scent—a mix of stale air conditioning and the ghosts of a thousand suitcases.

Last night I stood in the lobby, frozen, wandering throug a long row of doors in my mind. Which one was mine again? 719? No, that was the last place. 365? Or… 907? I’m lost in this grid of doors, suddenly realizing I don’t even know where I am, and that’s when it hits me: I miss home.

2

I miss my wife. I miss the calm steadiness of her presence, the way she doesn’t just ground me but reminds me who I am. I miss my kids, who raced through childhood so fast I’m still catching up. I miss my grandkids, the way they look at the world with that wide-eyed curiosity, as if everything is fresh and full of promise. And I miss the farm—the horses, the quiet fields. A place that doesn’t just exist in time, but feels like it pauses time, where I can actually breathe.

And yet, here I am. Somewhere, an audience waits, ready for me to share a piece of what I know, to leave behind a spark that maybe, just maybe, makes a difference. And that’s worth it, I tell myself. But this morning, I let myself admit it: I miss home. And sometimes, that’s the price you pay for trying to leave a mark in this world.

3

Ah, the glamorous life of an international keynote speaker. People imagine it’s all luxury lounges and Michelin-star dinners, drifting from city to city as if you’re some kind of suave, jet-setting philosopher. The reality? Well, let me take you on a little tour.

So, you start in Brussels, cozy and cloudy, and before you know it, you're in Doha. Then it’s Oman, Istanbul, Portugal, and hey, just a week later, hello Riyadh. A whirlwind of airports, hotels, conference rooms, and coffee so bad you wonder if it's part of some secret resilience training. People think, “Wow! Look at you, living the dream!” And yes, I am. If your dream involves 3 a.m. wake-up calls and figuring out how to sleep sitting upright next to someone who thinks your shoulder is their personal pillow.

Now, let’s talk about the fast lane, or as I like to call it, the slow lane for the ambitious. There you are, in a line that promises speed, but suddenly, the line stops. Why? Because there’s always someone who forgot they had a small village’s worth of metal in their carry-on. And just when it’s my turn, I hear, “He’s got a butter knife.”

A butter knife. I look at the security guy, expecting a smirk, maybe a punchline. But no. This guy looks at me dead serious, like I’m trying to spread some subversive marmalade on society. I tell him, no, I don’t have a butter knife. He stares at me, nods, and waves me on. A brief, surreal interlude in the life of a man who really, really just wanted a coffee and a nap.

Then, before you know it, you’re in another taxi, to another airport, checking into another hotel that looks suspiciously like the last one, and you start to wonder: am I really living? Or am I in some elaborate zombie cosplay, moving but not really moving, alive but barely living?

Ah, why do I do it? Why endure the butter-knife interrogations, the endless procession of time zones, the soul-sapping corridors of generic hotels? Because, my friend, it's about the thrill. The thrill of meeting new people—of catching that spark in their eyes when they realize, for just a moment, there might be something more to this world than they thought yesterday.

It’s the thrill of stepping onto that stage, feeling the rush of the lights, and delivering a message you genuinely believe in. And then, afterward, people come up to you, shake your hand, and say, “Wow, this was amazing. You opened my eyes!” In those moments, you’re not just a tired traveler or another guy with a presentation. You’re a messenger, a catalyst, a spark.

And no, it’s not for the applause (although, let’s be honest, a standing ovation does feel pretty good). It’s not for the glamour and glitter, either—because if you’ve seen the inside of enough airports at dawn, you know there’s nothing glamorous about holding your Converse while walking through a metal detector.

No, I do it because, deep down, I feel it’s what I’m meant to do. It’s a strange sense of purpose, a call to help people see things from a new angle, to make them question, wonder, laugh—and, just maybe, make a small dent in the universe. A tiny contribution that says, “I was here, and I tried to make something better.”

And at the end of the day, when I’m sitting on yet another plane, halfway to nowhere, staring out at the clouds, that thought is enough to keep me going.

4

And then, out of nowhere—no, not on a desert wind, nothing that poetic—it’s carried by the ones and zeroes of the Internet. The message finds me, somehow, like it always does. A high-end CEO, polished and all-knowing, who’s just the right mix of intrigued and offended by something I’ve said.

He’s sent me a message, one that’s made the 7rounds in his exclusive circle of CEOs. “This testimonial,” he writes, “I shared it in my group. Do you agree?”

It makes me smile. Because somewhere out there, in all those polished boardrooms and bulletproof strategies, my words have caused a ripple. Maybe ruffled a few feathers. It’s a reminder that, as much as I miss home, there’s still a reason I keep showing up, pushing the buttons, stirring the pot, making people think.

"Rik Vera is not just a keynote speaker; he’s a must-see experience—a world-class visionary operating in a league of his own. I came across Rik while looking for someone who could deliver fresh, big-picture insights, someone with the ability to tie complex ideas together into a cohesive, actionable vision. And let me tell you, he exceeded every expectation.

Not every speaker should be a specialist. In fact, that’s a risky idea. Rik himself challenges this notion head-on, with a unique expertise not rooted in one narrow field but in connecting dots that others might overlook. His specialty lies in seeing the holistic view—a rare skill in an age fixated on hyper-specialization, yet it’s exactly what companies need before plunging into specific expertise.

Rik’s approach is simple yet profound. Before an organization can pinpoint the kind of specialist it truly needs or even begin to implement a specialist’s advice, it needs context—a guiding framework. That’s where Rik Vera shines. He doesn’t bog audiences down with the technicalities of fine-tuning marketing algorithms or diving into the weeds of blockchain integration. Instead, he reveals how these pieces fit together, illuminating the ripple effects that changes in one area could trigger across the organization—from departments to market positioning and even company culture.

The risk of inviting a single-topic speaker is that the audience walks away with a fragmented view. Sure, they may think, 'That was insightful!' but without someone like Rik to tie it all together, it’s often just entertainment. Or worse, people leave with a handful of points that they latch onto without recognizing the domino effect these could create throughout the business. This is where Rik’s ability to look at the whole picture becomes invaluable.

Yes, Rik Vera is a 'non-specialist,' and that is precisely his genius. His role is to help companies make sense of the big forces shaping their world, examine their own strengths, and recognize which specialties are essential and how they should connect. He doesn’t just focus on keeping companies competitive; he’s committed to ensuring they remain relevant, adaptable, and resilient well beyond 2030.

Rik’s approach isn’t for the faint-hearted or those seeking easy answers. But if you’re looking for a guide who can bring together the insights of multiple experts into a cohesive, forward-thinking strategy, it’s time to rethink what 'specialist' really means. Rik Vera is simply unmissable—a world-class keynote speaker who delivers not just a talk, but an unforgettable, perspective-shifting experience."

5

And so, with a grin still lingering from that message, I dive into my morning routine. A hot bath to wash off the lingering fog of last night’s travel, followed by a double shot of espresso—make that a triple. The kind of fuel that jolts the brain into gear. I get dressed, each piece of clothing feeling like armor for another day out in the world, where words have a funny way of traveling farther than I do.

Then, I open the laptop, two fingers dancing over the keys, channeling all those little moments—hotel rooms, anonymous doors, missed numbers, the CEO’s message—into words. Words that might just make someone else smile, or think, or question. Or words I just wanted to write. Because. And once it's all down, I’m ready. Ready to go out there, yet again, and leave a spark, a dent, something that sticks. Because in the end, that’s why I’m here.