We are packing for a weeklong holiday. With a mild obsession for organization and an adoration of lists that borders on kink, packing has traditionally been one of my favorite activities. Then there’s the fact that packing is the act of preparing. Not just preparing, but preparing to go somewhere. I like those things. When I finish packing, I will close my bag. When I open the bag again, barring any unforeseen airport shenanigans, I will do so on a bed in a hotel in a place whose restaurants have a wholly different cuisine, whose language sports different idioms, and whose residents enjoy a completely different cultural-neighborly rivalry.
It was excitement embodied in a menial task.
But at some point, almost without me noticing, I got a bit older. This reality began rearing its head in my packing. Packing used to be straightforward: underwear, socks, pants. Now it’s my good underwear, compression socks, pants with elastic waistband. The number of creams, medicines both preventive and reactive, and things which provide comfort is rising with each year. As if Italy doesn’t have medication that can counteract the effects of a headache or an upset stomach. In effect, I try to bring my home with me abroad.
Today, as I pack, creams and digestants are the least of my problem. What I have noticed is that the pants I am planning on bringing with me are nearly perfect. They are light, cool, perfect for walking. The waistband is elastic and therefore flexible to the whimsical approach I plan on taking towards gelato and anything that includes the word ‘crema’. But the pockets are short and don’t provide the protection one wants when touring a city. And since while traveling my pockets must also house a passport, this doesn’t bode well. These are the pants I am bringing. But this pocket is problematic. I sit down and consider my options.
In 1991 two German hikers in the Ötztal Alps on the border between Austria and Italy came across something extraordinary and disturbing: a dead body. They reported it immediately. Due to storms, authorities couldn’t get back to the body for a few days. But when they did, they realized the body was not a tourist or a mountain climber come to a bad accident. In fact, the body was about 5,000 years old.
Ötzi, as he came to be known, was a 45ish hunter gatherer who lived in the Copper Age (around 3300 BCE). He was carrying a copper axe and a bow and arrows. He wore clothing made of leather and grass, including shoes and a bearskin hat. He also carried many tools needed for his survival, such as a flint scrape, a flint drill, a flint blade, a bone awl, and a piece of dried tinder fungus. And he carried all of these things in a leather pouch attached to his belt. He was wearing a fanny pack.
The fanny pack has taken quite a beating in the last few decades. They have become an international symbol of dorkiness and the number one sign of a clueless tourist. Want to find the butt of a joke in a movie? Find the fanny pack. But fanny packs are undeniably practical and convenient. And these days I am all about practical and convenient. But a fanny pack’s a big leap to take. It removes from one a slew of potential adjectives (i.e. cool) and attaches another adjective on more or less a permanent basis (i.e. uncool).
I have dreams of being at a gelato stand. How much is that? I ask. The woman tells me it’s 2 euro. Without hesitation I dig into my fanny pack and flip the coin to the woman. She is impressed by the motion. But when she notices the fanny pack, she shakes her head. It’s over. Also, everyone will know where my money is – does this give them a target. In the end, I decide to take my chances with both safety and reputation.
Ötzi was murdered, shot in the back with an arrow. He died on a mountainside and froze into a glacier. But his things were kept intact for 5,000 years when they were studied for an invaluable unrivaled look into life in Copper Age Europe.
Because of his fanny pack.
