Packing

One of the better aspects of an academic job is that every seven years you take a sabbatical to step back from the rat race, rejuvenate, and think up new ideas. Or, as is more common in reality, to finally catch up on some of the sleep you've missed over the previous decade.

Some professors take their sabbaticals at home, where they have the advantage of knowing which store has the best beer prices. But there's always the risk that some clueless jerk (i.e., your boss), will call you up with a question and interrupt your nap. So I much prefer to go far, far away. The moon would be a cool choice, but tickets are still a bit pricey so instead we picked New Zealand, which is much like the moon except that it's wetter and greener, has more oxygen, and is filled with millions of friendly sheep who will give you the wool off their backs if you're cold. Which is good, because in July, cold is New Zealand's middle name.

Everybody who hears we're moving to New Zealand has the same one-word reaction: “Wow!” Somehow, the country has gained a reputation as the most gorgeous place on the planet. Never mind that it's closer to Antarctica than Seattle is to Chicago. Never mind that some parts get OVER 21 FEET OF RAIN EVERY YEAR. Never mind that the Maoris named it “The Land of the Long White Cloud.” (Actually, that's the shortened version; the true name is “The Land of the Long White Cloud that Always Makes it Cold and Rainy But My Brother-in-Law's Neighbor's Cousin Claims She Saw the Sun Once When She Was a Girl.”) Ever since The Lord of the Rings came out, everybody is in love with New Zealand. So they're hugely envious of our upcoming trip. (Little do they know that LOTR was shot mostly in a studio in Burbank, using a backdrop based on a photograph taken on March 3rd, 1953, which was the only entirely sunny day New Zealand has had since World War II.)

Well, here's the truth about moving to another country for a year: getting there is absolute hell. There are a million things to take care of: renting the house out, buying airline tickets, packing your stuff, researching airline luggage charges, painting over the hole your kid's head made in the wall, discovering that the airline considers a jacket to be a piece of luggage (really), arguing with your wife about whether to sell your Manny Ramirez bobblehead doll that you never displayed because you're angry at Manny over the steroids thing, figuring out who's going to take care of the cats, paying an extra $300 per person for a plane seat that's not inside the toilet, getting visas, finding a place to live…the list only seems endless because it is endless.

But probably the most (not!) fun comes when it's time to pack your bags. The airline will check two 35-pound suitcases per person. So everything you need to live for a year has to be reduced to 70 pounds. And that's where our daughter comes in.

You see, our daughter has three great passions: horses, books, and rocks. So naturally she has her own idea of a good packing list. She is currently making piles of things to take with her. She has six sets of riding boots, four helmets, and several pairs of special pants. Meanwhile, for personal items, she has one pair of pajamas, one pair of jeans, two shirts, and a toothbrush. I tried to suggest that she might want to bring a dress for special occasions, and got the eye roll that only a twelve-year-old can give. But she understands that the book list has to be limited, so she has pared it down to just 1200 essential volumes, from Good Night Moon to Richard Feynman's 3-volume Lectures on Physics. After I assured her that New Zealand has discovered the concept of the library, she promised to put aside another 400 before we leave.

The rock collection is another matter. Every time we go on vacation, she finds a pretty rock to bring home. In fact, she does that every time we go to the park, the store, or even the local landfill. She collects rocks from everywhere, fully convinced that they are the most wonderful and valuable thing since the Hope Diamond. And she will not under any circumstances agree that the rocks could be left safely behind for a year. “What if burglars break in? Huh, Dad? What then? I'd lose them all!” This last word is uttered in that rising tone that kids reserve for the most dire situations in life (the ones that arise on a daily, if not hourly, basis).

I point out that New Zealand probably has rocks of its own. I point out that one of the airlines charges $5.75/pound (really) for excess baggage. I point out that the mythical burglars are probably interested in something more portable and valuable than rocks gathered from the street. This last comment is a huge mistake; the girl immediately bursts into tears at my insult to her years of careful sifting through beaches and gravel pits. In the end, I agree that she can bring “a few” along.

So we'll arrive at the airport with our six suitcases and six carry-ons, each packed to the brim, and one of them is going to be way overweight. I lost that part of the battle. But my daughter will be happy. And the Manny Ramirez bobblehead will be tucked away safely, protected on all sides by nice, strong rocks.