Have backpack, will travel.

Early this morning, as I was not sleeping (I watched the sunrise from my bedroom window… Haven’t ever done that by accident), amidst the racing thoughts in my mind (most of which having to deal with Aotearoa anyway), “JKC in NZ” popped into my head for a possible title for the travelogue I knew I’d make to document my adventures abroad. Not only is the title confining (what if I travel to Australia or Fiji or somewhere else while living in New Zealand? What if I continue using this journal after coming home? What if I change my name?), but it’s pretty uncreative. It only barely rhymes. It’s not alliterative, it lacks good rhythm and it doesn’t even have any numbers.

But these seven letters won’t leave my head. Nor are they making any room for other possible titles. So, here we are.

And though the title is somewhat of a hasty decision—I don’t leave for another 42 days (not that I’m counting)—I need to start this blog right now because today, I bought a backpack.

As a sidenote, I have a many feelings about the word “blog”… I use it often, but always with an affected-sounding accent so that people know I’m only using it for practicality’s sake; not because I really take the word seriously. Blog. Blog blog blog. It’s a silly word that makes me feel like a yuppie. But, what else would you call a log found on the web? Its unabbreviated root, “weblog,” which sounds like a sci-fi creature? No. Obviously use “blog.” Blog. I guess it’s still kind of sci-fi-y, like it might take over your city. And I suppose I could refer to this as a journal, or continue to call it my travelogue, or even a travel journal, but “blog” is just so simple. It’s a word of the 21^st century, where we’re all about simplicity, after all.

Anyway, back to the backpack.

Today, my friend Mary Kate and I had planned a beach day in Wells, Maine and I had called Emma, my friend from Saint Mike’s, to join us, because she lives in the area. When I woke up to the sound of MK’s ever-so-subtle “Wake up!” text message buzzing my phone off my desk, after a solid two hours of daylight sleep, the torrents I watched start sometime during the four o’clock hour were still strong. Groggily, I called Mary Kate as I walked down the stairs to make coffee. (The ability to navigate a cell phone and remain in control of motor functions is a skill people of my generation have perfected, I noticed yesterday, when I told my friend Eric to please not send a text message while driving, even though I knew he could.)

On the write-on/wipe-off board in my kitchen that my family uses as a prime means of communication, there was a note for me: “Looks like rain all day, Jack,” said my dad’s handwriting. He had also drawn an adorable yet heart-wrenching sadface.

I dismissed the message. Rain, scmain, we're goin' to Maine. (I'm sorry that rhymes. I didn't want it to. We just planned on going to Maine and not another state, and Maine rhymes with rain. It's not my fault.)

“Helloooo,” said Mary Kate, who I knew had been up since before I’d fallen asleep.

“Yo girl, we’re still going to Maine,” I said.

“I know,” she said simply. Then, “I was thinking we should pick your friend up and go to Freeport, maybe?” Though I’ve never been to Freeport, Maine, I’ve heard it has some serious shopping.

“Oh, yeah man!” I said.

I was in the market for a backpack practical for both school use and hiking, for my upcoming four months in Auckland, New Zealand.

“See you at…10?" I turned it into a question at the end.

"See you then."

We closed our respective flip-phones across towns and I nuked some of the lukewarm coffee that was left in the pot my mother brewed before she left for work, an hour after I’d fallen asleep. Microwaved coffee is perhaps my least favorite thing in the world, but this morning’s cup was not repulsive! Usually, I microwave a cup of coffee, try it, and then promptly pour it down the sink and brew a fresh pot. But, today, it was kind of delicious. I choose to attribute this momentary lapse of judgment to those two hours of shut-eye.

An hour later, as Mary Kate was navigating her Volvo onto I-495 North, I received a text from Emma that said, “I know youre still coming to maine even though it is lightly sprinkling.” I hit the green “talk” button on my Samsung and watched MK’s windshield wipers spasmodically prevent the sheets of rain from obscuring her view.

“Baby Caaaaain,” Emma said, which is how she always answers my phone calls.

“We’re on our way up north now,” I said. I mentioned to her our Freeport idea, and she suggested we meet in the closer Kittery, for its outlet shopping. Since MK and I were essentially just driving to Maine for no purpose other than a would-be beach day, and shopping anywhere would simply be a bonus, I told Emma we’d see her at the Kittery Trading Post in about an hour and a half.

I’d never been to Kittery, either. The Trading Post meeting place was Emma’s idea; she assured us it’s an obvious landmark. I’m familiar with the Trading Post only because my dad’s sweet waders come from there; I didn’t know what to expect beyond that, though.

Three floors of stuff one might expect to use in Maine (or New Zealand, I suppose), that’s what! We went in to the store via the South Entrance, which put Mary Kate and I into the Cheesy Things Made of Sweatpants Material That All Say “Maine” on Them section. Not necessarily my steeze, though Mary Kate tried to convince me I needed a neon tie-dyed Maine zip-up.

Moving on, we came to the good stuff. Man, I am now a huge fan of the Kittery Trading Post. Mostly I just love fleece jackets, and the Trading Post offers an amount of which some might consider excessive. I was inspecting a quality black Northface when Mary Kate pointed out I was already wearing it. I told her that the one I was currently wearing belonged to my roommate, but that I was probably going to bring it to Auckland anyway, but shouldn’t I maybe get my own? She just looked at me. I put the jacket back on the rack.

When Emma arrived, she told me the most interesting fact I’ve learned in a while: the Trading Post is where the highjackers stopped on their way to Logan Airport to buy boxcutters on September 11, 2001.

Anyway. The three of us went upstairs to the Camping and Travel Gear section to check out my one true desire: a big-girl backpack.

You see, I have carried the same magenta L.L. Bean backpack for eight years. In fact, one of my few memories from seventh grade is the same Mary Kate asking me, “When did you get a magenta backpack?!” on the first Monday I brought my beautiful new bag to school. My 12-year old self gloated a little at my friend’s mild jealousy. My magenta backpack was cool.

My magenta backpack is still cool. In fact, I feel a little bad for it, sitting, discarded, on my bedroom floor. It’s not that I don’t love you, magenta backpack. You have been a fantastic backpack; the best backpack a 12 or a 20-year old could possibly ask for. But, you see, magenta backpack, I feel like there’s no better time to give you a rest than before embarking on my Great Aucklandan Adventure.

In the Camping and Travel Gear section of the Trading Post, I was feverishly catching Emma up on the past four weeks of my life since I’d seen her; so, I was a little too distracted to start looking through the racks of bags myself, even though I was really excited by all those backpacks.

Mary Kate held one up for me to inspect.

“Oh my God, and then—ooh, I like that one, but I want one with side water bottle holders—and then I was walking up the stairs—oh, good, but I like those strappy things on the front that can hold your jacket or something, you know what I mean?—I was walking up the stairs and I heard—ooh, I like that one!”

I took the grey and purple Kelty bag from my friend and started playing with all the zippers and straps, stopping my story mid-thought.

My new backpack is perfect. It was only $36. I love the Kittery Trading Post.

So, basically, I decided to start documenting my New Zealand trip today because I bought a backpack.