The perfect companion

We all know about the pain of finding the perfect pair of jeans. They've got to fit properly, be the right length, reflect current fashion trends, go with all your other clothing items and lastly, but most importantly, they must be comfortable.

Little known to most, the pain of finding The Perfect Suitcase is excruciatingly similar.

I was looking forward to the purchase of The Perfect Suitcase. It was my last thing To Do on a long list of To Dos and it's purchase was to signal the commencement of the packing process- something I will only begin once it's very, very close to departure time, so as not to excite myself too much. (And obviously because packing one's clothes away too far ahead is highly impractical).

Not only this, but this is my first suitcase. My very own. Prior trips I've bagged, borrowed and stealed luggage. Due to the fact that my ticket was a one-way, it was time to be independant and purchase my own. Much like one invests in a good pair of jeans in the hopes that they will last a long time, through good times and bad, through wear and tear, I had the same high hopes of my suitcase.

Firstly, it had to look good and it had to stand out. It was important for me not to be searching for yet another black suitcase in a carousel full of one million other black suitcases, yet I didn't want to embarass myself by rolling up in chic Paris with a gaudy one-tone pink, blue or red.

It had a size and weight limit. Allowance for the Air New Zealand flight: 20 kilos. Size requirements for the Contiki tour: A paltry 75cm x 50cm x 25cm. However, it had to be big enough to quite literally compartmentalise my life into.

And lastly, yet most importantly, it had to be comfortable. Easy to roll around airports and subway stations, not too heavy to be lifting off carousels and out of taxis.

Six hours, two girlfriends and one caffeine hit later, The Perfect Suitcase was located, purchased and stowed away in the wee boot of my car. And just like how the non-designer denim we find doesn't look the same way a pair of Louis Vuitton's would, my suitcase wasn't the beautiful one I had pictured (adorned with a glowing halo)but it still had it all. Colour, flair, size and comfort.

I lugged it off the shelf as I would a carousel. I wheeled it down the aisles with the steely determination of those who vie to be the first through customs. I zipped and unzipped, mentally decided where the shoes and dirty laundry would go. I pretended to rifle through layers of clothing to find the perfect outfit for the Moulin Rouge.

And the most ironic thing? The equivalent to the perfect pair of (non-Louis) jeans was found at none other than The Warehouse. For a bottom-of-the-barrel price. (I can feel fashionistas the world-over recoiling). And so, with the Perfect Suitcase now sitting in the corner of my room, upright and beaming, it dawns on me that now is the time to start filling it.

Something tells me this is going to be a far harder task than finding the vessel was.

That niggling feeling

You know the one I mean. When you're pretending that something is what it isn't. Like your conscience when you call in sick, or your gut when you know someone is lying to you. That little voice in your head that goes, "hmmmm", a bit like a disapproving mother. That foreboding feeling when all is not well.

Well that niggling feeling has been, well, niggling, for a few weeks now. It happened again at dinner tonight. My amazing birthday dinner with my nearest and dearest, closest, loves-of-my-life friends. And then the niggling feeling. Will I make any friends in London? And more importantly, will they be as good as the ones I have now? And then that gut instinct. Yes, you will make friends and no, they won't be as amazing as the ones you have now.

And here come the questions. Whose going to look after me when I'm sick? Will I need to start cooking for myself again? What if I have to, gasp, have an injection while I'm away and there's nobody there to hold my hand? What if i get hit by a car and get ammnesia? (Jane Doe is such a tacky name). What if somebody kidnaps me and nobody ever notices?

Okay, so maybe the niggling feelings are what we call irrational feelings. Irrational, yet highly practical questions. I mean, I haven't cooked in six months, chances are I will reingnite the fire that blazed through London in the dark ages and wiped out ninety five percent of the city. As a matter of fact I think I clearly remember my Lonely Planet guide stating categorically that that fire was in fact started by a young lady on her first venture into the Rest of the World. Crap. What have I got myself into?

The urge to splurge

The first question people inevitably ask when they hear I’m going travelling is where I’ll be visiting. And then, somewhere between the ten day road trip around California, the layover in London and Paris, the train ride to Capri and the boat-ride around the Greek Islands, their eyes start to glaze over and so follows: Geez, how much is that all going to cost?

Personally, I think the cost of travel is negligible. It’s like renewing your vehicle registration, or buying groceries, or paying for medical care. Sometimes you just don’t have a choice.

Picture sun-tanning off the Amalfi Coast in Italy- no job (or more importantly, no more 12-hour shifts), no relationship troubles, no responsibilities. Throw in a glass of red wine and some authentic Italian food and I'll bet you're not worried about the cost now are you? Well, I’m not anyway. As you’re not the one going to be sun-tanning, you probably still care.

It’s true however, that as my departure becomes increasingly closer my budget has become whittled down to a fine toothpick. Not just for tripping around sun-drenched spots, but for my New Life in London. Or my attempt at a New Life in London. If my money runs out it will be re-labeled a Brief Flirtation with London which ended with an Embarrassing Plane-ride Home.

According to my trusted 1000-page Lonely Planet guide, London is the most expensive city in the world. Sure, rent is high ($300 New Zealand dollars a week for a shared flat), but after perusing a list of basic British living expenses I’ve decided Londoners must either be a pack of whingers or really bad with money. One pound for a newspaper? Cheap. 10 pounds for a pub meal? Reasonable. 100 pounds to catch the Eurostar to Paris? Fricken bargain.

Which brings me to the reason why I’m starving myself of material goods. Not because I’m afraid London might really bleed my bank account dry. But because I’m worried that London might bleed my bank account so dry that I won’t even be able to afford a Paris guide book, let alone a romantic jaunt to Paris for the weekend. And there are other jaunts planned too. Ireland, Amsterdam, Florence, Provence and even New York City are all on the itinerary.

So you see we mustn’t dwell on the cost. We mustn’t dwell on the fact that my shoes have holes in them, or that I haven’t had a hair-cut in six months, or even that I’ve taken to borrowing travel guides from the local library rather then buying my own. Because if all of that saves me $100, then that’s 100 euro (oh alright, 50 euro), that will be spent on prosciutto and camembert baguettes by the Seine, the glass of red in Italy (oh okay, bottle), and maybe even bangers and mash in London.