the turtle carries his home on his back

Last night, I reconnected with a trusted friend: my Dana Design Swift Traveler backpack (the one I have, unlike the picture, is dark green). When I took it down from the shelf above my door and opened it up, it had that musty air of nostalgia. We've been through a lot together, she and I: Eastern Europe, England, Ireland, Russia, Japan, and a trek across the United States. We've camped out in tents, spent long hours in cars and trains, pounded the pavement on city streets. She may look a little bit worse for wear, but I like to think she's just "lived in." Lived in a lot. I practically lived out of this backpack for about two and a half years of my life, the "wandering years."

It's been a year and a half since I've gone anywhere. The only trips I've taken since moving to New York have been on the Chinatwon bus up to Boston to spend holiday weekends with my family. This trip is different. I'm going further away and I'm going through old rituals: packing up my passport, placing toiletries in the convenient Dana Design pouches, putting my journal in there for in-transit meditations, filling up the sleek "scout pack" for day trips once I get to my desitination (some have compared the look of this little detachable pack to a turtle shell, not inappropriately).

I'm going to Paris, a city I've been to before. On the list of places I wanted to return to, I must admit that it was not the highest on my list. I've been there twice before and it was not a city I fell in love with (Red-baiters take note: I much prefer Moscow and East Berlin). I'm going because Air France had cheap flights and because my friends David and Mike are there. All the circumstances are perfect for a relatively cheap, much needed getaway. Istanbul, Bombay and Rio will have to wait. I don't want to do anything while I'm there. No cathedrals, no museums. I want to hang out at spots my friends know and wander around, soaking in the daily life.

Everyone seems surprised when I tell them I'm going to Paris on vacation. It seems unusual, unexpected -- and I guess it is. There was a time when I was always traveling, packing and unpacking this backpack and hauling it from one temporary stop after another. These familiar traveling rituals seem quaint now that I have a "home," now that I'm setting down roots in New York. But Menno House can't be my home for long. I'm already starting to think and worry about the next journey, the struggle to find an apartment in New York's cutthroat real estate market next fall. The challenge of reconfiguring my life all over again, made all the harder by how successfully everything has ended up this past year and a half.

But I don't need to think about that for a few months at least. Now it's goodbye to work for a week and goodbye to New York. Bonjour, vacances!