I sit here now and think of my bag. It seems strange (even to me) that my thoughts should choose to linger over my backpack but I confess I have wanted to write a piece on my luggage for a wile.
My pack is like a large, stupid but very loyal dog. From being thrown off two story buildings to having its straps melted by acid, it has stood by me through everything and everyone. Sitting here now I am reminded of the many times we spent together, some good yet most excruciatingly bad and filled with memories of departure lounges and lost bag desks. As a learned man once remarked “I have been to nearly as many places as my luggage” and I see, with little humor, his point.
Sleeping on a bench in LAX, my pack tied to my arm as announcements boom overhead.
Zooming through streets filled with crowds and frantic vehicles in a dirty tuk-tuk with the bag tied to the back. (testing the straps out) dropping it off a Bondi balcony one sunny day. Sweating in the rain as I walk miles in the dark, on a Scottish island carrying a pack so as to avoid hurting my pride and catching a taxi.
However worried I get with the places I find myself in, I am always reassured by the near constant presence my luggage. Nothing else has been so constant or durable throughout my travels, including people and all as my dusty rucksack. Now as I get ready for another frenzied bout of travel I hope with all my heart that all these trusting words will not curse my most trusted of companions.
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