I love to travel. I hate to pack and unpack. It feels that I’ve spent most of my life packing or unpacking a suitcase.

My parents separated when I was young, so I went back and forth between them. I left a lot of items at my dad’s, but not clothes. I’d pack Friday evening, unpack Friday evening, repack on Sunday and unpack again Sunday. Twice a month.

Through high school and cégep, I packed and unpacked to go to dad’s, to work (where I often would spend the weekend), to travel.

In university and college, I’d pack and unpack to visit my folks and my friends. Same thing since I started to work full-time.

Then I started to travel again.

Pack. Unpack. Repack. Reunpack.

I always check my packing list, but it’s a crutch. I don’t need one, just reminders of unusual items I need to bring.

It will be so nice to have a house on wheels, to be at home wherever I go, to put away the suitcase and bags for a while, to spend more time seeing and doing than sitting on a suitcase filled with all the stuff I might or might not need for the traveling I’m doing while praying that it’ll zip shut without bursting.

Tired of packing, but oh-so-not tired of traveling.