Yesterday I got my international driver’s license. On the bus from the motorist club office where they make them, my backpack broke. Not the big, beautifully green one that is my new crush, but the small blue one that I bought before going to Bolivia. I’ve used it daily for three years, so it braking isn’t that surprising really, but I got sad anyway, and stressed as hell. I really liked that bag. We’ve been through alot together. And my way of handling pressure is panic.
But that’s when it’s good to have a dad who works as a freelance journalist. He gladly took half a day off today to tend to my frail nerves. I drove him to a sports outlet and he helped me to pick out a new backpack. A different shade of blue, not as pretty but with loads of pockets. I think that we’ll get along just fine. The driving went well, it felt natural. Maybe I didn’t trick the inspector when he passed me after all, maybe I really know how to drive. I’ve had my doubts. Now I feel calm.
I have a big backpack that weighs 14 kilograms. Not over weight. I have a small backpack with a lot of pockets for all my cameras and cables and mp3-players and, most importantly, the tablet. I have a ticket and a passport. Now, I only need to buy some lingonberry jam and Marabou salt licorice chocolate for Frida, my personal Swedish alien in Canada, and I’m ready for take-off.
Katja Malmborg 