Anything that is done repetitively on a regular schedule is either a habit, a chore or a necessity. It may have been pleasant at first, like going on a business trip to some exotic place. You get all flustered about the possibilities and the adventures you could possibly have – even if these adventures, in reality, is just a walk to the local convenience store that’s half a block from your hotel.

The thought of having a stamp on your passport gives you the giddies. The possible interaction with the locals and the possibility of learning a couple of useful phrases in another language makes you smile. That’s the first time.

By the time you reach the 12th time, you’re starting to feel more agitated than excited. You volunteer another person for it – citing peer support and how your role is more needed and critical to your current location. You develop a pure hatred with packing.

There is still a sliver of happiness though, one that you’ve only recently acquired. Well, when you met her, that is. In your “ritual” of huffing, puffing, grumbling and mumbling while putting away shirts, socks and underwear, you calculate for that perfect amount of space in your suitcase. That is a special space. A sacred space. That space will be filled with little curios and postcards and weird food that she seems to enjoy. That space will hold a number of hotel toiletries that she keeps in a box under the bathroom sink, never to see the light of day until a guest decides to stay for a night or a week. That space is for airport gifts when you can’t get our of your packed schedule and couldn’t get anything local at all. It’s that sacred space that makes you endure the traveling.

So, in as much as you despise packing, you are comforted with the thought of unpacking.

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