It's in the Bag!

Strewn across the living room lay an embarrassment of kit. I photographed the salient features of each article for posterity. All my clothing was carefully rolled up in colour-coordinated columns and tops to bottoms in rows. You’ve probably worked out already that I love to organise. How can psychologists label an obsessive compulsion to sort stuff be as a disorder? So what if I put the knives, forks and spoons in separate dishwasher compartments to make it easy to put them back into the drawer? Is that just me?  

 

And so to the bags. I’ve become obsessed with lightweight dry-bags of every size.  At the top of my larger bag went one trekking outfit: bra, knickers, top, leggings, board shorts and socks. ‘Off-duty’ clothing was further down, with all other hiking clothes at the bottom. Undies, sleepwear, socks, handkerchiefs and a bikini filled a smaller bag. Spare socks for the day and my trekking sandals occupied the boot locker compartment, along with a spare water bottle. I bought an odour-blocking bag for any dirty kit I can’t wash overnight. I even had bags to use as actual bags: a pocketable water-resistant day-pack, for supported days and leisure; a bum-bag because they are always handy; a shoulder bag that squishes into a tiny capsule for ‘smarter’ occasions; and, so that I can leave my full backpack in Belgrade, an ultralight forty-litre holdall that packs down to the size of a fist. With a sudden nervousness over document safety, I splurged last minute on an RFID-protected passport body pouch to go with the RFID-protected wallet for bank cards.  

 

My everyday toiletries filled a clear bag. 120 ml of my favourite shampoo would easily last until resupply. My small bottle of hair conditioner could be topped up at the nicer properties. No need for soap or travel wash, as (almost) everywhere I would stay would provide this. Anything easily replaced (deodorant/ toothpaste, etc.) was in a lightweight but normal size. I invested in a decent high-SPF facial day moisturiser. Makeup was one brown-black waterproof mascara and one tube of coral-pink cream blush. I threw in a tinted lip balm and Chanel eyeliner ‘for best.’ The biggest luxury was a 50 ml bottle of spicy, woody eau de parfum. Instantly human in a spritz.  

 

An old airline vanity bag held my first aid kit. Yet another case bulged with technology chargers. Another wrapped all ‘hard to replace’ spares, such as backup ear-pods and cables, spare knee supports, as well as useful sundries such as elastic hair ties and safety pins. A slim plastic container contained a picnic kit: ultralight cutlery, a tub of mixed salt and pepper, an all-purpose knife for bread or fruit, silicone ziplock bags and clips to reseal food packets. I practised packing all of these to optimise relative accessibility during the day. 

 

I numbered each of my fresh boot boxes 1 to 5, adding fresh socks, knickers and medications to each one. For after Belgrade, I had a new pair of sandals, a fresh toothbrush head, an extra pair of long UV-blocking leggings and a secret weapon, a bug-repellent stretch jersey sleeping bag liner. As accommodation would become more sparsely spread to the southeast, I risked staying in a few sketchy places. This last ‘bag’ would defend me, just in case my bed came with a few thousand unwanted companions.