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Four days (four days?!) 'til take-off, and I'm already learning things about New Zealand--or maybe I'm still learning things I should have learned already. Things like: in New Zealand houses don't usually have central heating. And: at my university, classes don't start until March 2nd. 

And that I should be packing, but the idea of packing a life down to the size limits for Air New Zealand baggage is intimidating at best. I know I shouldn't need all this stuff, but there's a fine line between bringing too much and too little. I draw up lists: things to bring (clothes), things to leave (my iPod speakers), things to buy when I get there (an alarm clock). But I don't pack--I'll do that tomorrow. Or maybe the next day.

It's astounding how much junk a human being can accumulate in a life, and how much of it seems vital. I liked "Walden" as much as the next girl (assuming the next girl liked it quite a bit) but living out Thoreau's words seems nigh impossible. "Cultivate poverty like a garden herb, like sage. Do not trouble yourself much to get new things, whether clothes or friends. Turn the old; return to them. Things do not change; we change. Sell your clothes and keep your thoughts," he writes (echoing Christ, but Thoreau seems closer to me right now). I sit here sorting through piles of clothes, waiting to get a new swimsuit in the mail, hoping to make a good impression on new people (I hope friends) in a new place. And then there are the other accoutrements of my life,  things I need to either pack up or leave behind, but things that take up space in the world nonetheless. I wish I could at least say that everything I own fits in my car--I'm young enough, it seems like I should be able to pack up everything I own in a sedan or a station wagon and drive off into the sunset. But it doesn't, and I can't. Here I am, leaving a trail of unwanted, excessive possessions behind.