this story originally appeared in the philippine daily inquirer on April 9, 2011.
Whenever I am inside a bus terminal, train station, port or airport—hotel lobby, even—I have a tendency to look closely at the bags that people carry: the huge, dented suitcase with casters pulled by an old man in khaki shorts and a Hibiscus-print polo shirt; the bright pink knapsack worn by a teenager donning matching sunglasses and hoop earrings; the identical, tattered duffel bags effortlessly carried by towering athletes leading the queue; the elegant leather suitcase carried by a well-coiffed woman glued to her phone. I often wonder what the stories behind the bags are and how they ended up with their owners. I also try to guess where the travelers have been, what they have explored, and whom they have met. And recently I realized that if our positions were to be reversed, I wouldn’t make an interesting study and the bag I am carrying won’t give much away.
For the longest time, I have been using bags borrowed from relatives or very close friends, to be returned immediately after each trip; or bags I have bought or received for non-travel purposes, which resume their original function—school, office or everyday use—after a trip. Until a few months ago, I couldn’t put a finger on how I felt about using such bags, but now I know: The absence of familiarity, personal touch or customization makes me feel like I am crossing roads and time zones with a stranger. There’s a certain awkwardness, something amiss. Picture yourself walking in high heels borrowed from a friend the night before a job interview, or completing laps in running shoes unsuited for your foot type—they fit you, but they don’t fit you.
Like anyone who is eager to explore the world, I have always wanted my own durable travel gear. But I fell prey to routine and procrastination and settled for what was available, often telling myself, “This will do.” I kept putting off investing in a travel pack until a domestic trip late last year forced me to a decision. In the midst of exhilarating commutes via humming pump boats, roaring tricycles, smooth-sailing ferries and rickety buses, the bag I had borrowed for the trip turned out to be very uncomfortable. It came to the point of being distracting, causing worry that my small supply of clean clothes (or worse, my dirty laundry) would find their way through the zippers that had a mind of their own. I didn’t know the bag’s quirks, had no inkling as to where it had been, what it had gone through, or what had been packed in it before it reached me. By the time I returned it to its rightful owner, who knew exactly how to tame the zippers and unwittingly reassured me that the bag only held clothes, it was still alien to me.
That’s when it hit me. When traveling, part of the experience stays with the bag—be it a stubborn stain from expensive airport food, the scent of nauseating air freshener from the cab, or the good-looking hotel staff who carried it with utmost poise. It becomes a catchment of stories, as well as some (or many) of the owner’s hopes and dreams. Bits and pieces (no matter how trivial) of my adventures were left with bags that didn’t fit the role or belonged to someone else, and I could never get those chunks back. I always felt something amiss because the bags used already had stories of their own, stories that had nothing to do with travel, or stories built from excursions with their owners.
At that moment, I thought about a piece of luggage that should be part of any adventure I would undertake—on my own or with company—exuding my character and reflecting my encounters. I no longer wanted to deal with bags that were uncomfortable and unfamiliar, those with which I had to part with after the fun was over. I wanted one that sticks with me and tells my story.
Think about your favorite pen, which touches paper only when you write in your travel journal or idea notebook. Or your go-anywhere plastic-lens camera, which can buoy a conversation for hours on end. Or your lucky pair of running shoes, and your inability to discard them even when the soles are worn out. Or your battered yet beloved pair of tsinelas, which kept you afloat on the day you met your better half. When something begins to have sentimental value, that’s when you have created a story with it. It wouldn’t feel the same if you used a random pen or borrowed an officemate’s digital camera. Even new shoes and slippers have to be broken in.
Finally, I have my own backpack, one that I set money aside for, picked myself and bought solely for travel. I purchased it at a nearby mall, after failed attempts in the past months to get one from specialized luggage shops and fancier, upscale shopping centers. There, the options were plenty and arranged tastefully for display. But the bags didn’t pass the screening because they were either the offspring of form and function but beyond my budget, cheap-looking despite a hefty price tag, flimsy though bearing a known brand, insanely flashy to the point of being more of a liability than an asset, too big, too small, or promising but nothing more. Little did I know that after months of constant research, weeks of entering travel stores and days of scouting online marketplaces, I would find what I had been looking for in the bags section of a department store that has always been in plain sight. (It’s like looking for love someplace else when it’s right in front of you—that sort of thing.) It was a nice surprise.
It’s an investment, this backpack, a memory bank. I feel ecstatic to have found one that immediately befriended my back and shoulders, one that I will soon know every corner and pocket of even with my eyes closed; a bag that will witness my best and worst moves, bear with me the consequences of my decisions on the road, and not flake out on me.
I am excited about the memories that will pour into it: conversations with the people I am with, things I will carry and will have to let go, things that I have unintentionally left behind and can never get back, and gifts that join the pack yet make the load lighter. The bag will also reflect lessons learned and, hopefully, a maturity one gets from exploration.
My travel buddy literally shines from the corner of the room, its protective packaging reflecting the fluorescent light. Anything that happens to my backpack during my trips will add character to it, just as it will add character to my sojourns, side trips and stopovers.
