Almost everyone loves travelling around. That feeling of living on the fly, responsibilities left behind, the calm of alone-ness and anonymity. Always a new discovery around the corner, sampling rather than sinking in, the only hard choices being how long to stay, where to eat, where to flop and how to get to the next place. Most of us like the security of a home — friends, familiarity, regularity. But some of us come alive when we’re free of that stuff.

There are plenty of travelogue series on cable, guys or couples roaming from one exotic place to another, sampling native cuisine, taking in the sights, etc. But I’d like to see a Bourne-y type series about a man or a woman on the run who doesn’t want to be found, and so he/she has to keep moving. I don’t care what he/she is running from or who’s doing the chasing or why as long as the traveller-protagonist isn’t some odious criminal or sociopath.

Yes, of course — there can be no peace without dealing honestly with facts and responsibilities. But there’s also a seductive solace that comes with being on the existential lam, so to speak.

Remember The Prisoner, the ’60s British series with Patrick McGoohan? You didn’t quite know who the bad guys were or what their motives were exactly, but you knew they were watching and manipulating and pulling the strings. That’s all they’d need to be in this Bourne-y series. Nothing too specific or binding — just the guys you want to avoid.

The constant motion thing is what I used to love about the Bourne films (Identity, Supremacy, Ultimatum). The life of a smart and well-organized rolling stone, always a step ahead but rarely more than two or three steps. No rest to speak of, no roots, always on bikes and motorcycles and trains and ferries, one exotic locale to another, always looking over your shoulder but sleeping really well at night.

Odd as it sounds, there’s almost a kind of serenity in this. I’ve been there in a sense. I’ve been traipsing around for the last 17 or 18 years, taking trains from Amsterdam to Berlin to Prague to Munich to Vietnam, renting scooters in Paris and Rome and Hue, always on the move, parking it in cafes, not much eye contact, always writing and texting, always up late.

And that’s the joy of it. When you’ve accepted that you’re not living or parking it in any one place, every place you go is, in a sense, home. And it’s kind of blissful. I almost used the word glorious.

Who do I pitch this series to? I’m serious. The Bourne Identity meets The Prisoner, and the travelling never stops.