The passport and a toothbrush

---

The passport and a toothbrush

It’s 6am. I’m sitting at the airport lounge, tired and weary. I haven’t slept basically at all all night. I went to bed late after packing — and giving myself the absolutely necessary mani-pedi for all those toes in the sand and a coconut in my hands IG pics — and was unable to turn my wired up brain off anxiosly waiting for the moment I had to get up, until finally I dozed off to a sweet dreamland. And then the alarm went off.

The backpack loomed threateningly by the sofa, as if challenging me. Are you sure this is all? Are you sure this isn’t too much? I hate packing. I pack my backpack as a monthly thing, always at least for seven days and different climates. I’ve backpacked my whole life into a backpack moving to a completely different country, yet I never seem to master the skill or even get used to it. So I went to prepare my quick breakfast and a snack to take into the plane to give myself more time to ruminate over my list. Or rather procrastinate the anxiety and decisions I would have to make until I was in such a hurry to run out for my Ola ride that I just threw all the random items on the floor into the backpack. In my head it does always seem like a perfectly fine idea to prepare for a post-apocalyptic world on my holiday, especially when it’s a mont now that we’ll be spending in Goa. But even so, I spent the entire drive to the airport going through the list in my head instead of getting a quick sleep in the backseat. What did I forget, what did I forget?

I reached the Vizag airport. Anxiety reached a new level, as I have issues feeling comfortable around authorities and it’s an army operated airport. A couple of years ago in Finland I was biting my nails the whole time queueing for my passport at a police station. An old habit from childhood that only manifests itself now when I feel extremely nervous. And I do feel nervous and guilty around the police, as if every slightest misdeed, all the accidents I’ve ever had will be out in the open leading to my judgment day. I feel like it’s not just my backpack and my clothes going through the x-ray, but my soul too. And packing all my shit to Goa, when I well know I should just let the sun kiss my bare skin and the salty water curl my hair and just breathe and enjoy, well that’s a punishable offence, right?

So now I sit at the airport. As nervous, as guilty as ever. I’m not sure what I did, or did not, but I know that it must be something wrong and I’m unable to focus my thoughts on anything else. It, or hunger and fatigue, consumes me. I do not want to carry too much with me, neither do I want to buy anything to replace something left at home. I think about my boyfriend who makes it look so easy. Just chill, you’ll have everything you need, he would say, irritating me with his very Indian attitude. But doesn’t he get it? I need this to be in perfect order, under my control. I need to be prepared, so I can chill, because then I’ll know I will be able to handle any setbacks on an adventure too. If I pack all my clothes with me, there must be something to wear to the beach on those days I feel like a glowing white beach whale. But if I didn’t use half of it by the end of our stay, I will feel like (more of) an idiot (than I normally do). So what is it?

I catch my reflection on a glass surface. I see my forehead lined with worries and my lips curving down. Resting angry bitch face my boyfriend calls it. It’s then when I realise, I left my smile and enthusiasm on the table by the banana that will be getting black and rotting there for a month now. Will I be able to get the smile here before the plane takes off or will it reek death too once we get back home?

Everything will always be alright, as long as you have the passport and a toothbrush with you. And if not, mostly then too.