Suitcases do not make good chairs.
I reflect on this as the front zipper of mine digs into my upper thigh. I close my eyes and think like a boulder, hoping to weigh down the top. My mother struggles with the side zipper, trying to bring it around to meet its mate.
“One… good… push….!”
With a herculean effort she zips the case and I stand up, wiping my forehead.
Mmmm sweat, the eau de toilette of a Texan summer. You can’t escape it here; it clings to your sheets when you peel them back in the morning and cools on your brow as you fall asleep, ceiling fans working frantically overhead.
But I’m going to winter. (Or, as the Starks would say, winter is coming.) Today, Sunday May 19, I leave for Buenos Aires. My flight takes off at 9:10 p.m. and touches down around 9:30 a.m. in South America, just in time for coffee and a bagel (Is that what they eat for breakfast in Argentina?).
I’m nervous, and not just because I’ve characteristically over-packed. Will my adapters work? Will I run out of money? Will I have any friends? Will I be crushed by the weight of coursework and an internship? Will I ever finish the Song of Ice and Fire series?!
All this remains to be seen. For now, dragging my two suitcases down the stairs and praying to a higher power they’re lighter than 50 pounds (overweight bags incur a $200 fee), all I can think is: It better be worth it.