The Suitcase
Half of my adult life has been spent living out of a suitcase. Ironically, I’ve never owned a suitcase. At first I took pride in the fac...
Half of my adult life has been spent living out of a
suitcase. Ironically, I’ve never owned a suitcase. At first I took pride in the
fact that I lived on three continents off of borrowed backpacks (shout out to
Libby Darnell and Tatiana Woldman!).
I could squeeze them under my twin bed in South Korea or hop onto the
Metro with ease while other tourists fumbled with clunky wheels. Even when I
first moved back to the US, there was no storage in my small apartment and it
seemed like a luxury item compared to the laundry list of essentials I needed
to start a life here.
Over three years have passed; still no suitcase. Is it
defiance? I do take pride in being a light packer and squeezing two weeks worth
of clothes in my Fifi Lapin duffle bag. Am I being cheap? My last trip to Whole
Foods would indicate that I have the opposite problem.
As a free spirit, which we move-abroad types tend to be, the
suitcase is symbolic of the death of adventure. A traveler who goes on cruises instead of
stays in hostels, the person who prefers Sandals Resort to eating questionable
meat with villagers and someone who has a tidy corner in a garage where the
suitcase is housed for many years.
After three and a half years in Austin, I’m giving myself
permission to buy a suitcase. I will store this suitcase in my gleaming garage
in my charming subdivision and I will use it to carry my belongings to Brazil
next summer, where I will heed little advice about drinking the tap water and
insist on taking public transportation. I am giving myself permission to plant
roots and be free spirited at the same time and more importantly; I will no longer
be defined by a suitcase or lack thereof.
