by annie
Unbearable instrumental remakes of cheesy 80s classics, almost unidentifiable, blare in my ear as I desperately wait for a pharmacist to pick up the line. This is probably my sixth call to Kaiser in the last month, a sure sign that I'm making my way through the pre-trip checklist. I underestimated the amount of time, money and energy required for long-term travel preparations, but I'm getting the idea pretty quickly now. While I wait, I mentally review a few things on the list: buying new glasses, a backpack and sleeping bag, enduring vaccines, considering supplements, downsizing to 20 pounds of belongings, quitting jobs, deciding on shoes, and so on. I haven't even touched the emotional list yet, like saying goodbye to people I love.
God, if they're going to play renditions of mass marketed 80s memorabilia, they could at least include the lyrics.
To distract myself from it, I take stock of our apartment. "Organics to You" boxes sit randomly on the floor, on chairs and on each other, all overflowing with books, clothes, shoes, oh, and one actually still has veggies inside. Blue and green sticky notes with random lists of things to do claim any and every blank horizontal and vertical surface. Empty backpacks sit slumped on the floor, waiting for trial jaunts. We are collecting things in piles to give away en masse. We hope to make a bit of money along the way, but "everything has to go!" It brings the term "liquidation" to home, literally.
I try not to think about what it will be like to start all over, once the traveling is all said and done. As far as belongings go, I won't have much to come back to, just a few boxes and suitcases. That's how I want it to be. I hope whenever I do return, I'll view my meager collection of possessions as an invitation to create something fresh and new and exciting. Because that's what this is all about now: I'm cashing in my lifestyle for something different and better and ripe with possibilities. I'm starting over now to give myself the chance I need to become something different, without answering to the conventions of modern life.
I have wild hopes for these travels and I plan to realize them fully. When I return, I'll be ready to begin again. But for now, "Thank you for calling Kaiser Permanente. May I have your health record number please?"
Showing posts with label Pre-travel Reflections. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Pre-travel Reflections. Show all posts
February 17, 2009
January 4, 2009
Traveler's Pantry
by annie
Rummaging through the pantry for a roll of toilet paper can amount to significant frustration. In our pantry, you might find a can of beans or an iron, a box of tea or a broom, a light bulb or a food processor. There are also plenty of other items stuffed in the back that you would have more difficulty finding, like toilet paper.
Brian and I live in a tiny loft apartment together, with limited storage- hence the need for an “all-purpose” pantry. Back in June, we decided that I would move into his one-person apartment, cramming two people and way too much stuff into way too little space in order to best prepare ourselves for long-term travel. It would allow us to save money, spend lots of time together in small spaces and plan adventures together. We also hoped living in a shoebox would motivate us to find happy homes for the stuff that currently resides in our all-purpose pantry, our all-purpose drawers and every other nook and cranny.
As I searched for toilet paper in our overcrowded pantry, a small tin of baking powder caught my eye. My stomach dropped as I realized that in just a few months time, I would be without at least two things: 1) the stability of a home where baking items, such as the powder itself, await ready for fluffing up biscuits or cake, and 2) the common western comforts of which we take for granted, such as toilet paper (and in some cases, even toilets themselves).
I immediately became keenly grateful for my current comforts and stability, wondering how difficult life will be in ways I can’t even imagine, when all my belongings fit in a pack on my back. And I wondered what it will be like to fall to the beck and call of unusual cultural norms such as wiping my ass with my hand instead of a piece of pristine white paper.
Later, curled up in bed, cozy in my small but private apartment, I wondered how I will manage sleeping on floors and couches and mats and cots. As my stomach clenched from the current stress of a 9-to-5, I wondered how I’ll weather the storm of food poisoning and traveler’s diarrhea. As I reflected on my work day, I wondered about how well I’ll transition from sitting at a desk to digging with my hands. After a hard day of manual labor, will I relish in the company of fellow travelers and farm hosts? Or will I seek solitude like a squirrel forages nuts for the winter?
I wrestle with so many questions, questions that will not be answered until they are. And my present challenge, as always, is to focus on now. What am I to do in this three month waiting room? I know that I must do more than wait; this time should not be focused solely on what’s to come. I need to balance the planning with the being and before I know it, I’ll be hanging upside down inside myself, in another country, in another life. And just as I couldn’t have predicted the onset of nostalgia from a can of baking powder, I cannot predict the changes I will undergo, the challenges I will face or the radical shift in my experience of myself and my relationship to the world.
And so, in lieu of an actual pantry, we will use this blog as a cupboard where we'll keep our stories and whereabouts and memories and pictures; anything and everything that will fit, right here in our traveler's pantry.
Rummaging through the pantry for a roll of toilet paper can amount to significant frustration. In our pantry, you might find a can of beans or an iron, a box of tea or a broom, a light bulb or a food processor. There are also plenty of other items stuffed in the back that you would have more difficulty finding, like toilet paper.
Brian and I live in a tiny loft apartment together, with limited storage- hence the need for an “all-purpose” pantry. Back in June, we decided that I would move into his one-person apartment, cramming two people and way too much stuff into way too little space in order to best prepare ourselves for long-term travel. It would allow us to save money, spend lots of time together in small spaces and plan adventures together. We also hoped living in a shoebox would motivate us to find happy homes for the stuff that currently resides in our all-purpose pantry, our all-purpose drawers and every other nook and cranny.
As I searched for toilet paper in our overcrowded pantry, a small tin of baking powder caught my eye. My stomach dropped as I realized that in just a few months time, I would be without at least two things: 1) the stability of a home where baking items, such as the powder itself, await ready for fluffing up biscuits or cake, and 2) the common western comforts of which we take for granted, such as toilet paper (and in some cases, even toilets themselves).
I immediately became keenly grateful for my current comforts and stability, wondering how difficult life will be in ways I can’t even imagine, when all my belongings fit in a pack on my back. And I wondered what it will be like to fall to the beck and call of unusual cultural norms such as wiping my ass with my hand instead of a piece of pristine white paper.
Later, curled up in bed, cozy in my small but private apartment, I wondered how I will manage sleeping on floors and couches and mats and cots. As my stomach clenched from the current stress of a 9-to-5, I wondered how I’ll weather the storm of food poisoning and traveler’s diarrhea. As I reflected on my work day, I wondered about how well I’ll transition from sitting at a desk to digging with my hands. After a hard day of manual labor, will I relish in the company of fellow travelers and farm hosts? Or will I seek solitude like a squirrel forages nuts for the winter?
I wrestle with so many questions, questions that will not be answered until they are. And my present challenge, as always, is to focus on now. What am I to do in this three month waiting room? I know that I must do more than wait; this time should not be focused solely on what’s to come. I need to balance the planning with the being and before I know it, I’ll be hanging upside down inside myself, in another country, in another life. And just as I couldn’t have predicted the onset of nostalgia from a can of baking powder, I cannot predict the changes I will undergo, the challenges I will face or the radical shift in my experience of myself and my relationship to the world.
And so, in lieu of an actual pantry, we will use this blog as a cupboard where we'll keep our stories and whereabouts and memories and pictures; anything and everything that will fit, right here in our traveler's pantry.
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