Late afternoon Istanbul, September 2005The final stage of my next journey is underway and its T-8 days until departure for Italy.
My suitcase is sitting in my living room- all the pockets cleaned out and the main flap unzipped wide open to receive the necessities that will sustain me through the Third World hell that is Central Italy. Do they have toothpaste? Toilet paper? For godsakes do they do laundry? Should I bring 16 changes of clothing? My memory is that the Italians dress nicely, particularly in the cities, but I don't do leather particularly well, so I pack American traveler chic: beater tennis shoes, mismatched white crew socks, cargo shorts with 30 assorted pockets, a tee shirt with an American flag and a von Dutch baseball cap. Oh yeah, and an obnoxious attitude.
Apparently, packing for me is an outward manifestation of my inner tumultuous dialogue.
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