Traveling Light
A backpack, a handful of spices, and the quiet rituals that make unfamiliar places feel like home
I have always travelled with a backpack. Ever since I first went to Kenya, Istanbul, and Germany and learned that my fragile, not weight-lifting body would crush under the weight of two 50 lb suitcases that were heavier than me. Moving to countries that required me to carry everything I needed for a year through several seasons meant that now I call this 28L Cotopaxi, freedom. This perfectly compact, suitcase-like backpack has taught me how to carry only the things that matter, objects that make unfamiliar places feel a little more like home.
My process begins a week in advance when I review the several meticulously written lists I have on my notes app, one for long haul trips, one for short haul trips. I check the potential weather and pack my bag with what the Germans call “onion” dressing layers. Thin layers that are easy to pack, switch out and build the layers of warmth in the winter. My threshold for just taking a backpack is 4 weeks. I am the kind of person that finds the tradeoff of laundry way more accessible than carrying a small house everywhere I go or standing in the endless check in bag lines. I want to zoom in and out of that airport, even if it means not having flip flops or a specific outfit for every occasion.
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As a woman I feel there is a lot of pressure to dress a certain way on vacation, shop specifically for vacation, expend hours of energy deciding on what goes with what and what accessories to pack, what shoes, what jewelry. Amongst the noise, my system feels like clarity. This week I am packing for a week on the rainy and windy coast of Ireland. It is February and my best friend and I are planning a roadtrip across Achill Island in County Mayo, defined as a “rugged Irish isle.”
Over years, I have honed in my cargo, ruthlessly editing things without a purpose and always leaving room for the things that bring me great joy.
In the large right side mesh pocket lie packing squares with all my clothing essentials. This time it’s a storm gray Peter Scott jumper with a shrunken fit made of Scottish wool. I have recently been loving the color combination of rich brown and storm gray so I also included my brown corduroy pants. Partially because of the combo, and partially because I have a recurring appointment with my Afghan tailor in Frankfurt to make an edit on the hem. The place I will be visiting for the two weeks after Ireland. I always have a tailor, in every city I live in and in every language I have attempted to speak, miming and my broken use of technical words somehow always being sufficient enough to get the job done. I grew up in a place where clothes were always created custom to fit you, not the other way around, so I have carried that tradition with me everywhere I go. It’s also created a comfort with my body that is so foreign to many women I know. When the ads and the billboards and the social media are loud in telling you to be smaller, having a tailor releases you from the chains of sizing. Instead, it makes the art of dressing yourself more about creativity and interpretation.
This capsule wardrobe is that of a traveller, a chef, and a fashion lover.
There are time-worn t-shirts, one mock neck and one boat neck, both in black. They serve as the trusty insulating layer under a neatly layered look, depending on the cold. There is a small white jewelry case with sculptural pieces and dainty gold pieces; they serve as the small opportunity to create interest with the same neutral pieces. I love a scarf, and I always carry two in different color schemes to serve as belts, hair accessories, a pop of color or some coverage around my neck. I have been particularly inspired by the way they are draped on the Celine Spring 2026 runway. Then there is a simple brown lip color, a concealer, a moisturizer and some sunscreen. The essentials that can get me through day and night. Where I get stuck is the shoes, typically too bulky to justify two in one trip.
I guess my hiking boots will have to be deemed a “quirky choice” at all the Michelin events happening in Dublin.
The rest is a series of cloth and tapestry bound journals for my writing, my observations and a bright purple velvet case for wrangled chargers and adapters.
I suppose I should tell you about the ingredients. The front pocket of the backpack is specially reserved for them in case the TSA has questions about what it is or what I am cooking. My friends laugh because they know I will always prioritize my collection of ingredients over my clothes. “I can always borrow those”, I confess, but the treasures are fresh Hungarian paprika from Kalocsa, brilliant vermillion in color and still mildly sweet from the pepper. The sumac from my Jordanian friend’s mom’s garden is sharp and citrusy, the way no store-bought one has ever been able to replace. They often become the quiet jewels that make my dishes extraordinary.
These spices are a portable way to carry my loved ones with me, each sprinkle reminding me of the hand that first shared this piece of their heritage with me.
Whenever I open the bag, I get a strong whiff of spices, something that would make me shudder as an immigrant child in America, which now makes me instantly feel at home. As soon as I get to my friend’s place, I begin unraveling my Cotopaxi. Only once everything is laid out do I feel settled. I first unzip the front pocket and carry the spices into the kitchen, the perfume of the powders trailing behind as I search for the right cabinet to place them. These aromas remind me that home for me is not a certain place, but something I have learned to carry with me.
