An Essay on How I Turn Every Vacation into a Mirror of Domestic Life
Travel, they say, is meant to free us—from routine, from predictability, from the familiar tyranny of our own habits. It is meant to unsettle us gently, to loosen our rituals, to introduce us to novelty with a forgiving smile.
umour, satire.This, alas, is what happens to other people.
I travel with the solemn resolve of ensuring that nothing—absolutely nothing—changes.
When I leave home, I do not abandon it. I relocate it. Methodically. Thoughtfully. Sometimes lovingly. Wherever I go, my home follows, packed in layers, zipped with care, and reinforced with contingency plans.
Packing, for me, is not a task; it is a philosophical exercise. I do not pack for the trip I am taking—I pack for all the trips that might occur within that trip. A short vacation? Naturally, I carry an umbrella—for the occasional sun, the unexpected cloud, and the abstract concept of weather itself. A one-hour trek? I take enough water to survive mild dehydration, moderate anxiety, and a complete collapse of local infrastructure. “What if there is no water?” I ask, even as civilisation hums audibly around me.
Then come the personal care essentials. These are not vanity items; they are safeguards of identity. I may not be attending a single social event, may not meet a soul beyond my travelling companions, and may barely glance at my own reflection—but I carry the entire compact of civilisation: creams for day, night, and emotional uncertainty; grooming tools for occasions that will never arise; and products that promise radiance in places where the only witnesses are trees, hills, and deeply indifferent hotel walls.
My companions observe this ritual with growing despair.
“Why do you need all this?” they ask, pointing at the bags multiplying around me.
I look at them gently, with the patience of the thoroughly prepared.
“What if I need it?”
This ends all discussion.
Objects, however, are only half the story. The true burden I carry is ritual.
Vacations, in theory, are meant to disrupt routine. For me, routine is sacred. I carry it with me like a portable constitution. Morning walks must happen at home-time, even if the sun has other plans. Tea must be brewed just so, preferably with supplies from home, because foreign kettles possess questionable moral character. Meals must follow familiar rhythms, even in countries celebrated for their cuisine.
Breakfast at eight. Walk at six. Tea at four. Sleep at ten.
Once, someone—clearly reckless—suggested we “go with the flow.” I stared at them as one might stare at a proposal to abandon gravity.
Hotel rooms, too, must be domesticated. Furniture is rearranged. Toiletries are aligned. Bags are unpacked with ceremonial seriousness. Within minutes, the room ceases to be a hotel room and becomes a branch office of my home—temporary, but fully functional.
Naturally, this has consequences.
My luggage occupies shared spaces. My routines dictate schedules. Simple outings acquire the logistical complexity of minor expeditions. A spontaneous stroll is met with, “Just a minute—I need to pack.” Fellow travellers begin to recognise the signs: the sighs, the quiet negotiations, the careful calculation of how many bags must be carried and how many might mysteriously disappear.
I have seen patience tested. I have heard silence grow heavy.
And yet—recently—a troubling thought has crept in.
Perhaps I am not merely prepared.
Perhaps I am… impossible.
Perhaps, in my devotion to comfort, I have turned travel into an elaborate act of resistance. Perhaps my companions did not sign up to escort a mobile household across geographies. Perhaps vacations were never meant to be extensions of one’s living room.
This realisation arrives late—usually somewhere between the baggage carousel and the exhausted sigh of someone lifting my suitcase.
So I have decided—heroically, dramatically, and with great inner trembling—to reform.
On my next trip, I am determined, I will leave something behind.
Something familiar.
Something comforting.
Something symbolic.
Perhaps the extra umbrella.
Perhaps the emergency cosmetic kit.
Perhaps—dare one even say it—the rigid routine.
I make no promises of speed. Reform, after all, must be gradual—especially when undertaken by someone who travels not just with luggage, but with an entire way of life.
The world, I am told, awaits.
And if it proves overwhelming—well, I will still have my water bottle.
Just in case.
scribo ad LX 