The mail has been pretty exciting lately. A couple weeks back I took my entire stash of giftcards with a remaining balance and used them to order items I need or want for my upcoming voyage. Some of them like mosquito netting and and a new trekking backpack are born out of pure necessity. I have also allowed myself some small strategic indulgences such as a replacement half pan of green for my watercolor set or a book on animal behavior that might be useful. This has proven to be a subtle and revealing test of self control. I think I am possibly the only person who needs to convince himself, that given a finite amount of luggage space, that there might be better use for this real estate in my bag than a comprehensive field guide dedicated exclusively to African antelopes.
Every couple of days I hear the creak of my screen door followed by the heavy sigh of my postman who can't imagine why I suddenly am getting so many packages. Through a triumph of human spirit in the face of adversity, he's decided to be unflinchingly long-suffering about it. Once the mailman is safely out of complaining distance I can collect my treasures. It should be mentioned that not every box has contained something trip related. Mixed in with the money belt and ultra-light sleeping bag has been my usual consignment of crickets and vitamin supplements for the chameleon, my aunt's fantastic cookies and most memorably of all, a box full of small mammal corpses that a good friend had been keeping in her freezer for me after her cat had dispatched them (My skull collection is one of the weirder manifestations of my obsession with comparative anatomy. I could discuss it at greater length in the unlikely event that you'd want me to). Even though I know the exact contents of each box I ordered and have to prevent myself from obsessively tracking their progress online, the thrill of getting mail has still not diminished. As I open the box to inspect the contents, I have a physical object that I can leaf through or adjust the straps on that makes me a little more prepared, brings me one step closer to the moment when I board a plane for the unknown.
Every couple of days I hear the creak of my screen door followed by the heavy sigh of my postman who can't imagine why I suddenly am getting so many packages. Through a triumph of human spirit in the face of adversity, he's decided to be unflinchingly long-suffering about it. Once the mailman is safely out of complaining distance I can collect my treasures. It should be mentioned that not every box has contained something trip related. Mixed in with the money belt and ultra-light sleeping bag has been my usual consignment of crickets and vitamin supplements for the chameleon, my aunt's fantastic cookies and most memorably of all, a box full of small mammal corpses that a good friend had been keeping in her freezer for me after her cat had dispatched them (My skull collection is one of the weirder manifestations of my obsession with comparative anatomy. I could discuss it at greater length in the unlikely event that you'd want me to). Even though I know the exact contents of each box I ordered and have to prevent myself from obsessively tracking their progress online, the thrill of getting mail has still not diminished. As I open the box to inspect the contents, I have a physical object that I can leaf through or adjust the straps on that makes me a little more prepared, brings me one step closer to the moment when I board a plane for the unknown.
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