Bugging in, bugging out, and going shopping
Today I left Genoa and came back to Milan. I’ve been here before: it was the first place I came in Italy when I got here for the first time last fall. When I was here last, I spoke not a single word of Italian. I sat in a café in the city and saw two German girls (my age) studying Italian—I was inspired to begin by them. As I have mentioned before, my initial plan was to learn German: I know that in the work I’d like to do, it will behoove me to read German texts in the original language; perhaps this is a hold-over from my theological training, but I couldn’t do, for example, Marxological work without reading the original text; a translation just won’t cut it.
Last time I was in Milan, I stayed at a hostel in Navigli, which was delightful. This time I’m in a sister location of the hostel I stayed at in Genoa—these hostels provide free ingredients in the kitchen, which is an enormous help. Even having a kitchen stocked with salt, pepper, oil, and pasta is already excellent. There’re also bowls of fruits and vegetables. Of course, I’m not the greatest cook, but I can feed myself. At this point in my travels, I’m beginning to think about saving some money—I have some savings, but I’d like not to deplete them entirely by the time I return. Luckily I still have some income from my parents, which more than adequately covers my expenses. I’d like to get some gear, though, so it’d be good to save up.
Packing and unpacking is an art. Someone asked me whether it’s better to leave in the morning or the evening; my preference is the afternoon, since I hate to feel rushed when I’m packing up to go or unpacking in the new place. To borrow a term from disaster preppers, I like to think of “bugging in” and “bugging out”. You bug out of a place when you leave it; you bug in when you temporarily occupy it. There’s a certain art to bugging out of a room, making sure that you have everything neatly stored on your person so you can carry it comfortably; this is part of the art of “backpacking”: you do, in fact, have to live out of your backpack.
There’s also an art to bugging in: it doesn’t do just to toss the bag in the locker and go on with your day. I’ve learned to think about the noise it’d make to get up or go to sleep: I don’t want to disturb my sleeping roommates by digging around in my bag for a toothbrush or underwear or something; I want to be able to grab it quickly and silently, without being a nuisance. There’s also a decided psychological effect to bugging in to a space: the anonymous room becomes home because I kit it out with the appurtenances of my life. I always have my teddy bear and blanket with me because they turn any bed into my bed; I like to hang my clothes because the textiles occupy the space and announce my presence.
Bugging in and bugging out regularly is a purgative: you’re forced to go through Marie Kondo’s practice of picking up and holding each object to see whether it gives you joy. Every time I pack, I realize there’s something I don’t need; every time I unpack, I leave something in the bag untouched. You’re encouraged to think of the quantity of your possessions—not only in terms of their number, but by their volume and mass: you have to fit them in the finite space of the bag and carry them on your person from place to place. I know how much space my extra USB cables take up; I know how heavy my laptop is. I have two pairs of headphones with me: one wired with a boom mic and one wireless. Do I really need both? I use them for different things, but I have both mainly to compensate for the limitations of the machines I have with me: the handy (German for “smart phone”) has a messed up headphone jack, so the wireless is better for that; the laptop doesn’t have bluetooth, or I can’t get it to work, so the wired is better for that. But do I really need both? What about the needle-point belt my mother made that I haven’t worn in months? That second pair of khakis?
On the other hand, sometimes it’s necessary to acquire. I need to get a better day pack: I have a packable one, but it’s not very sturdy or ergonomic; it’s convenient to stuff in my side bag, but it’s not really suitable for backpacking. I’d like something sturdy and ergonomic but not ostentatious: I don’t want to advertise the fact that I have expensive stuff in there. I let the perfect be the enemy of the good in Genoa, where they have all sorts of great bag stores. I’ll keep looking out, though: Milan is only going to have more.
Part of my hesitation in buying a new backpack, though, is because I don’t want to have more things; but I bought a new pair of trousers yesterday for the first time in a while, so maybe I’m getting over it. I know people who struggle more than I do to buy things for themselves; they can afford what they want and could really use it, but they demur. I’m not sure what the cause of this is, but it’s a tendency that I observe in myself, too. Is it that we don’t feel that we deserve the new thing? Is it that we feel guilt for acquiring, a weird inversion of avarice? I’m not sure; maybe it has something to do with how quickly modern commodities wear out: I don’t want to have to buy a new pair of shoes every eight or twelve months, so I’m going to wear the shoes as long as I feel they should last, regardless of their actual state. Maybe it’s because we don’t want to spend money, because we don’t feel as though it’s ours to spend. But there are tools that I have in my life that make me happy: a notebook, a computer, some eye glasses. I don’t think it’s unreasonable to get a sturdy bag to carry them in.
