This Time Last Year

This time last year I was frantically packing in the most minimalist style possible: pair of shorts, seems to weigh too much, just roll up the cargo pants instead, is a long sleeve shirt really necessary or should I just be liberal with the sunscreen, do I need a camera or will my phone zoom be miraculously in reach of everything?

This time this year I am packing up everything I own – which like my horizons, is now exponentially bigger (than my bag). 
For a year I rolled around a small backpack and a “suitcase” (it transforms into a big backpack – but really, at my age, anything with wheels is useful). 

My bag and I had a ton of adventures, we’ve ticked off enough countries to fill out a Bumble profile and seem “worldly” (don’t worry, I will not be touting that information).

I’ve had a year of going from ocean depths to mountain heights, of meeting people from all walks of life, who made me laugh and made me cry, and made my life infinitely better. 

And now I am packing heavy boxes full of “clothes” and “kitchen equipment” for a place I don’t have yet. 

At the end of the week, I’ve got a flight to Los Angeles, where, after a year of my heart expanding, it’s time for my stuff to expand. 

Happy New Year Everyone, here’s to brand new adventures! 

Luggage: Green Bag awaiting to board

Why Things Have A Year Long Warranty

Ever wondered why almost anything you buy comes with a year long warranty?

I mean, it’s clearly not the most reassuring part of buying a product – yes, I’ll buy this flat screen TV, would I like the one year warranty? Why? Do you expect your product to go bust or maybe fall off the wall in a year?

The logic of buying a ONE year insurance policy on an expensive piece of equipment has always mistified me, so I’ve never bought it. Consequently, everything usually “mysteriously” dies around 11 months (looking at you old MP3 player who broke me heart, also, computer – you better not be thinking of giving up the ghost). 

On the flip side, I’m sure if I did pay $55.99 for a warranty, everything would start to die around the 357 day mark. 

As my year comes to a close, so many things have started falling apart it’s like my luggage knows it needs to lose a few pounds in anticipation of carrying Christmas presents (selfishly, mainly to myself) back. It automatically put itself on Weight Watchers and at the same time signed up for a class in Minimalism and is just shedding things like a golden retriever in the summer. 

THE “THANK YOU FOR YOUR SERVICE, YOU’LL BE MISSED” LIST

  • Sunglasses: I’m not sure what happened, we’d been together for years, your big funky yellow and purple frames made people think I was “slightly cool” and also “unaware of my head size,” but last week you collapsed. Your frame gave up and said, “our time together has been great, but you need to see out of someone else now”
  • Cargo Pants: I know what happened to you, you weren’t quite prepared to handle my proportions over such a long distance. I tried stitching you up (three times!) But now it’s time to face facts, you seem to have self-sacrificed yourself so that people won’t make fun of me for wearing cargo pants back in the States, it is very thoughtful of you – RIP. 
  • Leather Hand Bag: The other night at dinner you tried to make a run for it, your strap just broke. I’m not writing you a thank you letter yet, because I refuse to believe that this is the end – I’ve sent you to a repair shop, our parting is only temporary. 
  • Sneakers: You literally got filled with cement and buried yourself, I’m not sure anything has left me so definitively. 
  • Hiking Shoes: You are hanging on by a bare thread, you might as well be sandals for the amount of socks I can see. I’m really hoping you can make it another week because unless I find a replacement I’m flying home to Seattle, in the winter, in a summer dress, a pair of socks and flip-flops. If you can’t make it, I cannot thank you enough for getting me through a whole year of (thousands?) miles. You’ve been the best.

If I believed in signs, everything breaking would be a sign that it is time to go home – see you soon mulled wine and cookies. 

Stitching up the old cargo pants on the night train
RIP sunglasses