THE VIOLET DUCK INSIDE MY PANTS

Packing is serious business.

I’m so used to cramming whenever I travel that packing usually falls to the bottom of my priority list. Inevitably, I only realize I’ve forgotten something important when I’m already halfway across the world. This time, however, I decided to take packing seriously.

So seriously, in fact, that it might already be a little O.A.

I started packing three months ago.

No joke. I began buying things just before Christmas. Take the hair wax I’m bringing, for example. I didn’t buy it because I needed it now. I bought it on a whim, imagining that my hair would grow into something wildly unmanageable during the trip. It’s hard enough to get a haircut when you can’t understand your stylist’s language. The last time I tried in Bangkok, I walked out looking like I had accidental dreadlocks.

I also bought two pairs of flip-flops, just in case I lose one. During my last trip, while on a boat ride to another island, one of my flip-flops slipped off and vanished into the sea. There I was later, trudging across the sandy beaches of Nha Trang wearing sneakers like an idiot.

Then there’s the tiny flashlight I picked up. I’m convinced it will come in handy. The last time I was in a small village in northern Laos, they shut off the electricity at midnight. I happened to be in a bar that evening. At some point, slightly tipsy, I needed to pee. With no light and absolutely no sense of direction, I fumbled around in the dark and ended up in the ladies’ bathroom.

Mortifying.

Moral of the story: don’t drink in dodgy bars that don’t have generators.
Because money is tight for this trip, I also bought a couple of drab T-shirts—the kind that are usually the last to leave the rack, the ones in awkward sizes nobody wants. Thankfully they were buy-one-take-one. I took a pair of scissors and trimmed them just below the waist and around the neckline to make them look a little funkier. I read about this DIY trick in V-Man magazine, so I knew I was on the right side of fashion.

Of course, I accidentally cut my finger in the process, leaving little bloodstains everywhere.

All that trouble just to salvage two sad shirts.

But then again, style before comfort, I keep telling myself—as if it will even matter where I’m going.

My friend Nathan also suggested I bring a toy or a small doll to serve as my alter ego—a kind of traveling mascot. It sounded odd at first, but I later read about it in a travel journal. Apparently a lot of backpackers do this, almost like carrying a lucky charm. Nathan suggested a teddy bear, but that felt a bit too predictable. He also proposed one of those voodoo-looking dolls I bought on my last trip, but that seemed slightly creepy. The last thing I want is to scare off my fellow travelers.
So for the past week I’ve been searching for the perfect toy to bring along. Something light. Something interesting. I imagined photographing it at different stops along the journey—a jet-setting toy, like the garden gnome in Amélie.

Then one day, while picking up my niece’s toys, I saw this strange little rubber duck.

That was it.

A rubber ducky that travels. How wonderfully absurd.
It’s iconic, really. No childhood feels complete without a rubber duck. Thanks to Ernie and Bert, rubber duckies have practically become cultural artifacts. My niece’s duck, however, was a bit too big—I wanted something small enough to slip into my pocket. So I went to the mall to hunt for one.

By some stroke of luck, I found the perfect duck: a tiny violet rubber ducky.
Unbelievably campy. Exactly the right size for my pocket.

I never had a rubber duck growing up, and I’m convinced that this somehow contributed to my stunted cognitive development. Now I finally have one. I can already imagine the fun I’ll have photographing my new mascot throughout the trip. It’ll be a great conversation starter with fellow travelers.
A small violet duck inside my pants.

Grins.

So after three months of “serious” packing, here’s what I’ve managed to prepare: a jar of hair wax, two pairs of flip-flops, a couple of drab-turned-fab shirts, a flashlight, and a violet rubber duck.

Boy, am I prepared.

Then again, cramming has always been my style.
Some habits, it seems, are impossible to pack away.