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The Purple Backpack

Introspection of a trip.

By Angela DuranPublished 7 years ago 3 min read
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If the little girl I was could see me now, with my purple backpack on my back, old tennis shoes and walking by myself on the streets of Rome, she would smile gladly.

That is what was crossing my mind a little more than two years ago. I was walking alone at night in a very dark street with my old purple backpack where I had managed to pack everything necessary for my fifteen day adventure, as well as a small dispensable pink bag, one of those promotional bags you receive at some school events.

I was wearing a hoodie; the hood was covering my head, like it was trying to hide me from the world while the soundtrack of my trip sounded in my ears. Tangled in the purple backpack was my black jacket of synthetic leather that did not fit in the bag, but I was reluctant to leave behind. A good jacket never hurts, I thought.

I had always been the hyperactive little girl of the family, the one that lives on the moon, talks more that she listens, loses everything she buys and dreams more than she understands. I was a Girl Scout, rebellious student and spoiled daughter.

Lioness of two worlds, my grandmother used to call me because I lived jumping from my mum’s house to my dad’s each week. Maybe there I learned that home lives inside the soul, perhaps there I learned that a purple backpack can contain everything you need.

That trip to Rome wasn't the first I made; I even had lived in a strange country for a few months; however, something in that journey felt just surreal.

Maybe the fact of being in one of the places on my bucket list, maybe having my family so far away and no battery in my mobile, got me feeling nostalgia, fear and freedom in the same amounts. Perhaps just the satisfaction of knowing that, the little moony, dreamy girl was alive inside me, more than ever before.

I would love to describe that trip with detail; however, my soul and mind don’t remember the same way. Although if there is something I will never forget, it is the phone call I received a few days after, the phone call that would change my route and feelings.

So then, after only six days of my journey, the magic went out of the window of the hotel and froze on the snow of Switzerland; while the woman packed the dreamy little girl in the purple backpack and put on the leather jacket, trying to warm up her soul.

And like that a dream adventure was ending with the bitter taste of a goodbye without farewell; landing in my country covered in mourning for the absence of a loved one, without smiles, memories or magic… a pocket watch frozen in time.

I wish I had kept a diary to help me describe all the beauty of that travel that gave me the best souvenir of all; the strength to shape from sadness, a brave heart that could fly again.

Now, years later here I am; far away from home, with my old purple backpack at the back, like the warm embrace of an old friend that tells you: come on, keep going. With a new pair of tennis shoes, the same old headphones with an updated soundtrack and a new jacket; but with my head uncovered, without hiding from the world.

This trip to Rome is not the first I make; now I even carry a diary, I am determined to register each and every moment to help me remember, always. However, something in this journey seems just surreal.

Maybe the sadness that the memories awake in my heart, perhaps the certainty of seeing my family after so long, maybe just the peace and freedom that travel gives to my life.

Perhaps simply the satisfaction of knowing that, if the little girl I once was could see me now, with scars and fears, walking confidently on the streets of Rome, would smile proudly.

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