I love my backpack. It’s been to at least twenty countries on three continents, strapped to six different motorcycles and abused by more baggage carriers than a fifty year old bachelor. I’ve never come close to losing it and it’ll always hold a special place in my heart.

(a train in japan)

But man, it’s getting ratty. The nylon is stained with gunk from innumerable Vietnamese mudholes, it’s missing some buckles and I had to duct tape one shoulder strap to keep the padding from falling out. It’s understandable that an observer might assume it’s owned by a homeless person.

(north vietnam)

I was coming home at the beginning of September and stopped to get a burger next to the Columbia Heights metro. I saw a man out the window carefully shredding a copy of Express and putting it into different garbage bins. I finished my burger, put on my pack and started fishing through the trash to see what was on them. A guy about my age tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Hey man, you look like you could use a burger. Come on, I’ll buy you one.” I politely refused and said I wasn’t that poor.

(some dustpit in the vietnamese highlands)

Again, just the other day, I was standing at the corner of Columbia and Ontario with the damn thing when a kid of about seven and his mom passed me. As they walked by, I heard the kid ask, “Mommy, is he homeless?”

(a night in front of a japanese train station)

Stop judging me! And merry Christmas!