This isn’t even everything

The ability to travel light is a virtue; there is no debating that. I have never really possessed this virtue. Confess: how many pairs of shoes do you need for even just one weekend? Right. Running shoes, walking shoes, dressy shoes, comfy shoes, something flip-floppy. I am packing for 10 weeks. Now, I truly hate to acknowledge the gender gap here, but, seriously–I recognize that there are men who may be reading this post and who are just about now ready to move on because I wrote about shoes up there but STOP. Come on. Really. You can go off for the weekend with nothing more than a bandana and a book of matches? Really? Come on.

When I was getting ready to leave, I asked my neighbors (who I love) “How much do I need to pack for this road trip?” and Neighbor Husband said, “pair of shorts, pair of jeans, two t-shirts, long-sleeved shirt, two socks, two underwear, sweatshirt.” He said this like he packs for a 10-week trip every day. In fact, he used to camp a lot with “difficult youths” as a wilderness counselor so maybe that short list, plus a case of Mountain Dew and cigarettes really was his pared-down reality. But sensible as this prescription was, it was not going to work for me. I figured I had to pack for so many realities: changing seasons, hotels, campgrounds, workouts, dinner parties, conferences, rain; I had to pack for the possibility of swimming and for the  inevitable sad, lonely road moments when I would need something soft and fuzzy and warm to surround me and help me hold my shit together–a form of soothing that maybe Neighbor Husband could accomplish with a simple change of socks, but, not me. (This is actually Colby’s role–to be soft, fuzzy, and  comforting. But the truth is, if I start to freak out, Colby also starts to freak out, and more often than not, in times of stress it is Colby who freaks out first and thus it becomes my job to be soft, fuzzy, and comforting. So in short, I needed to pack at least one fleecy pullover thing, if not two–considering where I was planning to travel…more on that in an upcoming post.)

There is an underlying truth of the matter, so I may as well just cut to it: I am (wait for it, cyber friends…this is messed up) 49 years old. And that means I’ve been working and earning for a very long time–actually, since I was 15 (though I spent all the money I made at that first job, from age 15 to 17, on things I can’t write about openly and also on a really ridiculous, rusty little car called “The Goddess Mobile,” named thusly because I thought in cosmic terms back then, and named things accordingly), and because I’ve worked so long and saved some, and because I have an awesome set of parents who support my dreams even to this day, and because my employer–Norwalk Community College–is supporting me somewhat on this sabbatical journey that I’m partly on (though the whole “let’s go for a drive, Colby!” thing is strictly personal…) the bottom line is, I do not actually have to travel light. I can–because I’ve reached a certain dreadful age–afford to not travel light. I’m not traveling extravagantly, but, I’ve got some stuff along for the ride. And though I have all my life admired the expression “just a hippie gypsy,” I can’t honestly make those words apply to me, just as the Scamp has not been named “The Goddess Domicile.” I am not floating down the road.  I am not rambling. I am dragging The Dog House.

Alright. So here, then,  is a list of things that you really should bring on a road trip, if you have the ability, and the space, and you are willing to surrender to your true desire to be acquisitive and stuff-laden, which is a truth lurking in us all, because we are humans, we are Americans (if you’re reading I assume you are but HEY how cool if you are not!) and it is 2013, and RETAIL is the dominant force in our economy (don’t worry; go shopping!!!) and to deny this is folly. You really need:

• 1 Good car and 1 trailer–check!
• $100 in groceries from Trader Joe’s, including quinoa and smoked tofu (if you are a fruity northeasterner, as I am, this is like water. Also, while we’re on it, bring water);
• Tarp, blanket, another blanket, four towels (Colby needs three), comforter, pillow;
• Big pot, little pot, fry pan, 2 bowls, 2 plates, 2 glasses, 2 mixing bowls, one overly expensive French press, a good mug, a tea kettle;
• Self-buttering popcorn lid that was found at thrift shop where pots and pans were bought and was irresistible;
• Two camp chairs, a fold-up table, camp lantern;
• Wind chimes, clothes line, cooler, tool box, tools, duct tap, lots of duct tape;
• A big, big plastic bin filled with all the books you know you’ll want and the ones that you might want and also the ones you should want and also a few that you saw and thought, “oh, I forgot about that one!” while you were packing…
• Enough electronic gadgetry to arm a fleet of angry(?) robots;
• 20 pounds of dog food, dog treats, leash, spare leash;
• An atlas, a Woodall’s Guide to Midwestern Campgrounds, a GPS unit;
• Clothes and shoes, shoes and clothes, clothes and shoes;
• fishing pole/tackle box;
• mini barbecue, charcoal, matches, lighter fluid;
• Dog bed, dog medicines, my medicines, other pills that sometimes come in handy like aspirin;
• A mesh bag with the usual toiletries as well as cosmetic clay masks, planter’s wart pads, athletic tape, body lotion, wrinkle eraser and vitamin cream (because by god, in addition to traveling and writing, I am going to use this time to heal my feet, take 10 years off my face, lose 10 pounds and get very, very healthy)…
• And.. what else? I know I’m forgetting something. That’s the thing: we plan and plan but always forget something. I have all this stuff because you know what? I can have it, and I might need it, and I have room to take it. That’s the main thing. Traveling light is a true virtue, but, getting stuck without something you really need, like your passport or a corkscrew, really sucks.

POST SCRIPT: three days into my trip, I realized I probably only needed to bring a pair of shorts, a pair of jeans, two t-shirts, two socks, two underwear, and a sweatshirt, and maybe a couple other things. And for the other things that I had completely forgotten, I found that it was easy to hit the Dollar Store, because in America in 2013, every single little struggling or plain-old dead town (the kind of town I am seeing plenty of) has a Dollar Store. So I went out and bought what I simply could not live without: a little garbage bin, two throw rugs for the trailer (because it fills up with foot dirt so fast), an extension cord, a voice recorder, a laundry bag, and a six-pack of diet root beer. All easily obtained at the Dollar Store and now I am all set. I also want to mention here that when I packed I did NOT bring my guitar, bicycle, kayak or any form of television or other entertainment mechanism. I miss these things, but, listen to me: THE POINT OF A ROAD TRIP is to do things differently, so, obviously, I had to leave some things behind.