"Get your grips,"
my grandmother used to say when she came to pick me up for an
overnight visit to her house. On the evening before a trip, a
grip is what I need.
I enjoy traveling and
believe that I possess many characteristics of the ideal traveler.
I'm easily amused, can sit quietly in small spaces, have a high
tolerance for boredom, and a strong stomach. For months before
a trip I read guidebooks, search the Internet, and plot the ideal
route between destinations. I study maps obsessively, hoping that
eventually the irregular lines will reveal the area's secrets
and it will become obvious how to travel from Chiang Mai, Thailand
to the border town of Chiang Khong.
What I hate is packing.
Once I open my suitcase
and start to pack, the anticipation I have enjoyed for months
will disappear and I'll wonder why I ever thought this was a good
idea. I agonize over including one unnecessary article of clothing.
Now that I work at home, I carelessly wear the same thing day
after day, but I cannot predict what I will feel like wearing
as I tour the temples of Angkor or walk the streets of Berlin.
I want clothes that are smart, slimming, and will call the right
amount of attention to myself. I want something that will look
good in photographs. On the evening before a trip, it seems I
do not own anything that fits this description.
As soon as I start
packing I am overcome with the need to organize my closet, hem
the pants that have been held up with masking tape for the last
year, and polish all my shoes. Suddenly I feel like ironing. There
is no time like the present to address the resolutions I make
each January to lose weight, learn Spanish, and start an herb
garden. It is tempting to think that if I would just cancel this
one trip I could finally become a slim, Spanish-speaking gardener.
My husband has no problem
packing. He opens his bag, counts out a pair of underwear for
each day that he is going to be away, adds a random number of
clothes, and zips the whole thing shut. The process takes no more
than 30 minutes. He feels no compulsion to travel light and he
always packs too much, which I always point out to him. He does
not take this in the helpful spirit in which it is intended.
Sometime around 11:30
on the evening before a trip, my husband will take the pillow
off his head and ask in the aggrieved voice he usually reserves
for eating vegetables if I am ever coming to bed. I cheerfully
tell him that I am almost done, although in reality I have not
made much progress in the last two hours. It strikes me that this
would be a good time to catch up on my email. I am tempted to
write my parents and apologize for having been a teenager. I could
finally finish last year's Christmas cards, or at least steam
off the stamps from the envelopes I addressed but never mailed.
A friend emailed me
last night with her own packing blues. She claims she develops
octopus suckers on the day before a trip and wants to stick to
her furniture, her kitchen, even her keyboard. Obviously, I identify.
It's not that I'm afraid
of flying. Eventually someone else will need to clean out my underwear
drawer, but that is not a worry I associate with travel. I may
say the wrong thing, pay too much at the local market, or spend
a day within sight of the nearest bathroom, but none of these
are sufficient reasons to stay home. If only I didn't need to
pack.
A friend recommends
that I pack in advance, but that would only prolong my discomfort.
Another friend suggests Beatles music, played loudly while dancing
around the house. I cannot imagine this exuberance. Packing is
my penance, the price I pay for leaving my shortcomings behind.
Because once my bag
is zipped for the final time, the extra pair of heavy socks stuffed
in the outside pocket, I can turn my back on my procrastinating
ways without regret. No point going on a diet now. It's silly
to learn Spanish on my way to Japan. The pile of clothes on my
bedroom chair that reproach me each morning with their need for
buttons will just have to wait.
I'm a traveler now.
Leave a message if you like. I won't be checking in.
