All my clothes and other necessities are sprawled out on the floor of my sister’s old room above the garage. The room is like a minefield. Every step must be carefully orchestrated to avoid all the clutter. Little piles of this and that line every inch of the turquoise carpet that I call my staging area. In between sips out of my polka dot, latte mug, I debate how I can possibly pack less. Stuffing my backpack is exactly like playing Tetris, rotating items every which way so they fit logically, while occupying the smallest amount of space. Living out of a backpack is the antithesis of luxury and I’ve actually begun to question all those items Americans deem so essential, like deodorant. Gross, (I know) but these are the sacrifices I find myself mulling over. I’ll be glad when I’m finally finished packing and at the airport with two bags, one boarding pass and a really big smile. Life becomes so simple when it’s distilled down to a backpack.
