Dave's Travel Journals
Packer's Block
Somewhere Over Northern Canada:
August 9, 2001
By Dave Fox
I hate packing. And unpacking and repacking, which I will be doing every couple of days for the next six and a half weeks. One would think that after 15 years of scrounging my way through Europe's youth hostels and train stations, I would have figured out how to pack a backpack without experiencing severe emotional trauma. But there's something about having to squish my entire existence into a carry-on-sized bag for a month and a half that makes me want to scream and kick my furniture. Unfortunately, screaming and furniture kicking do nothing in the way of squishing my clothes, lecture notes, toothbrush, Immodium, and electric toenail sharpener into my bag, and in the end, I am always forced to calm down and squish things by hand.
Yesterday, I woke up at 3:30 a.m. with the brilliant idea that since it was lunch time in Copenhagen, I should get out of bed and get a jump on my jetlag. I had a writing deadline taken care of by 6, which I was pleased about until I realized my only other major commitment was to have my bag packed in the next 36 hours.
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Me and my tour mascot, Sven the Incredible Norwegian Wondermoose. (Sven's the one on the right.) |
I went into my bedroom and stared at the floor. It was still there -- my mess. Two bags -- one for clothes and dental floss, the other for books, notes, paperwork, and Sven.
I knew, without a doubt, everything strewn across my bedroom floor would squish successfully into my bags; I had already done it once this summer. Actually, I had done it about 14 times this summer... every couple of days for four weeks. And I knew, because I routinely wake up 17 minutes before I have to meet my tour group, that it could be done in less than 17 minutes. But with 36 hours before flying time, my brain would not allow me to be that efficient. I checked the Copenhagen weather on cnn.com. I checked my e-mail 23 times. I took a long shower and brushed my teeth extra carefully for an hour and a half. Anything to avoid packing. I waited for today to arrive. Today arrived. My bags were still not packed.
With two hours before I needed to leave for the airport, I was still debating whether there was any sense in packing my Tevas. It seemed silly to bring sandals when I am flying to a city that is 65 degrees (12 C) and rainy. It seemed silly bringing them when I will be having snowball fights in the Norwegian mountains in mid-September. But there's nothing worse than a Scandinavian heatwave without proper summer attire. Two weeks ago, temps were in the 80s. At the last minute, I located 16 extra cubic inches in my backpack and squished the Tevas in.
I'm in the sky now, screeching around the planet at a very fast speed. I don't know how fast, but I suspect that if a policeman could pull us over, he would. The odd thing is I don't feel like I am moving. I feel like I have been given a big glass of scotch by a flight attendant, which is probably due to the fact that I have been given a big glass of scotch by a flight attendant. But I feel like I am just sitting here. I AM just sitting here.
The sun is bright above the clouds. Dinner is being served. In seven hours I will be in Copenhagen.
I board my flight and the Scandinavian Dave kicks in. Finally after a seven-week blur back home in Seattle, once I find myself surrounded by Danish and Swedish and Norwegian, the reality sets in that I am going back to my other life for a few weeks.
I am leaving behind my native land, which is in the throes of a debate over human cloning. I am leaving behind a nation in which two parents are auctioning off, on e-bay, the right to name their son. They say they will accept bids from tobacco companies, and I worry about this kid who may go through life being called Marlboro Light or Lucky Strike or Camel. I am leaving behind one of the world's richest nations, whose president has just sent tax refunds to millions of people, most of whom are buying themselves goodies of some sort or another with their unexpected windfall while thousands of people sleep hungry on sidewalks. (Here's a challenge: If you are American and have just received your tax refund check... if you live well enough to own a computer to receive this e-mail... if your tax refund came as an unexpected surprise... donate at least part of it to someone who needs it more than you. If you have ever wished more tax money would go to a particular cause -- any cause -- now is your chance to make that happen.)
I'm going to a place where I like to complain about the high beer prices, but where I once studied at a university for 70 US dollars per semester, where a visit to the dentist cost me seven dollars.
Hmmm... pardon me. There is something about being flung from Seattle to Scandinavia that makes me rabidly political all of a sudden. And I don't think it's the scotch, though I may be wrong.
I'm screeching across northern Canada at the moment, watching a Wallace and Gromit video. They have just landed on the moon. I will land in Copenhagen in a few hours. I don't think the two have anything to do with each other... but I am reaching for a clever sort of conclusion to this e-mail and that's the best I can come up with in my post-dinner state of mind.
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