A Weight Off My Shoulders

On Friday, I bought a new backpack at Incheon Airport, in Seoul. On a whim, I picked one that was blue. Then I carried it to the Japan Airlines lounge, where I transplanted everything from my black backpack of the last two years in about five minutes. This included all the debris at the bottom; I didn't have time to sort out the chaff before my flight to Tokyo boarded.

(Incidentally, I didn't realize I knew the word "chaff" until I just wrote it down. I've clearly been playing too much Scrabulous.)

I write about it because the experience was remarkably cleansing. Literally, a weight off my shoulders. That black backpack had been lots of places with me: Egypt, China, Korea, Singapore, Boston, half the states in the Union. Some had been good places, but combined they had worn the backpack out. When it was empty, I dropped it in a wastebasket. This probably set off a bomb alert later in the afternoon, though at least I didn't wear a circuitboard around my neck. Then I scooped up the new one, slung it over my shoulder, grinned at how light it was, and hustled to Gate 39.