One hundred pounds and 107 inches is the limit for two checked bags. So how much can I carry upon my body, while I roll those two from pillar to post, literally. And how does one organize these bags. What will I need. What can't I live without.
Envisioning the two years ahead of my has proven close to impossible. Other's blog posts, advice, packing lists and photographs and videos only show me what other folks have experienced. Where they'll put an old lady like me could be quite different. Maybe I'll need suit jackets more than they do. And linen napkins to make my hut feel -- mannered.
It's all been thrift shop accumulated, but it's nice stuff. Too nice I fear. Too this. Too that.
I feel ridiculous for worrying about possessions. A peace corps assignment is not about possessions. But I am me and I have stuff, require stuff to do my job, and so exactly which stuff goes with me. This has been my last three weeks. (Along with odd jobs - babysitting Angelena, driving Miss Mary - to bring in cash and gas.)
Surely this minor anxiety is to be expected, and I'm sure, looking back, a normal peace corps experience - packing. Thing is, it's accompanied the whole time with waves of nostalgia for the security and beauty that is home and family. With regret for all the gatherings and special moments I'll miss. With the lump in the throat concerns for my ailing, aging parents. Will they be alright while I'm gone?
We meet for paperwork and meetings on 25 September at the Georgetown Holiday Inn. The next day we are bussed to an unspecified airport (Dulles, probably) for our South Africa Airlines flight to Dakar.
I've got everything organized on a rack, in two suitcases, and in stacks in Mom's little guest bedroom where I've been staying. Barely one-third of it will fit. The rest goes into the attic and won't see daylight until Christmas 2014.
I wonder what life (what I, my family members, the country, the planet!) will be like in 27 months.
