Say what you will about traveling light, it is a sound theory, and one which I usually adhere to, but if you happen to be on an around the world journey, traveling lets say, from Perth on the West Coast of Australia to the United Kingdom up into northern Scotland, then flying across the Atlantic to Toronto and from there down to San Francisco, over to Sydney and finally back home to Perth again, as my wife and I did last year, you will no doubt find that the notion of traveling light is simply not a feasible plan.

An UMBRO athletic bag or a ROOTS knapsack just will not cut it if one is trying to transport all of one’s accumulated souvenirs: the tablecloths, the commemorative ornamental plates, the collectible spoons and God-knows-what-else acquired in every port of call back to their home to be given away to relatives and friends who really don’t want that kind of junk in the first place.
 

I don’t believe it is humanly possible for someone to leave home for any prolonged period of time and return carrying less than they had when they set out, with the possible exception of an individual who has gone off to fight in a foreign war and finds himself coming home somewhat diminished in the appendage department. When we unpacked upon arriving home, I was like a child on Christmas morning, rediscovering this and that, items that I had forgotten about almost immediately after cramming them into my tattered and torn oversized black suitcase. I feel I must be blunt about this: My suitcase is pretty much useless now. It didn’t cost very much and it hasn’t even given me a year of service. The handle is now affixed to the main part of it with an elastic band and a twist-tie, a necessary spur of the moment repair job made soon after I discovered the handle hanging off to the side as my shabby suitcase limped and hiccupped along the mechanized moving luggage carousel at Pearson International Airport.
 

My black bag is frayed and worn at its corners and doesn’t quite stand upright without assistance. I am ashamed of my suitcase. When claiming my luggage, I usually stand in front of the baggage carousels, as close as I can get to it after shoving my way past fifteen hundred fellow travelers with less patience than me (and I am the most impatient man on Earth) who for some reason feel the compelling need to occupy precisely the same spot that I am trying to occupy at the same time. So there I stand, shifting my body weight from one leg to the other, enviously eyeing the expensive bags that tumble past on the belt as I await my own with apprehension, dreading the state it may now be in. It is easy to spot expensive luggage. These are the only pieces of baggage that are not ripped or torn, that don’t have dirty laundry hanging out of the unzipped sides of them, or that don’t have massive big wet stains where the sixty ounce bottles of over-proof rum that people spent hours carefully wrapping to ensure that they would not shatter and leak out all over their newly bought clothes have done precisely that -shattered and leaked out all over their newly bought clothes.

The expensive luggage seems impervious to such indignities, seemingly never causing its owner any undue shame or embarrassment at all. Expensive luggage is sturdy and firm, with zippers that zip properly and buckles that fasten tightly, not needing such frivolous newfangled doo-dads like Velcro handle wraps and pocket snaps. I sometimes amuse myself while awaiting my luggage by playing a little game. I will pick out a particular piece of expensive luggage as it goes by and then I will scan the faces in the crowd, and attempt to match the bag correctly with its owner, trying to do this before the owner claims it and hauls it away from the heap of inferior baggage surrounding it. More often than not, expensive luggage will almost always appear to have nothing or next to nothing inside, seemingly weightless as it is plucked from the rotating baggage belt by its owner who expends a minimum of effort.
 

Everywhere my wife and I traveled to on this particular journey, we noticed evidence of wealth and affluence, but having pots of money does not necessarily go hand in hand with having good manners.. People have designer bags but attitudes to match. We witnessed a deplorable display of indifference to the rules of politeness and common courtesy on the part of many of the human beings we encountered during our travels. Nobody seems to be concerned with being polite anymore. Good manners no longer seem to be fashionable. No one smiles and says “please “, “ thank you” or “excuse me” at all nowadays. I am not only referring to our fellow travelers here but even those employed in occupations wherein such niceties ought to be commonplace, like shop sales staff or individuals in information kiosks.
 

When we disembarked at Toronto’s airport and started on the three mile hike from the airplane to the baggage pick up area, the aggression and hostility hung in the air like an invisible fog all over the place; the tension almost palpable. I decided later that this was probably due to the populace of Toronto being gripped in a state of fear, and after reading the local newspapers I discovered why. There had been nearly fifteen handgun murders so far in the city in that month alone. One unfortunate fellow was randomly shot in the head and killed by bullets fired from a passing automobile not two blocks from where we were staying as he walked along minding his own business on the first night we were in town. So much for Michael Moore’s cinematic depiction of Toronto “the good” as a metropolis where it is safe to walk the streets and even leave the front door to your home open without fear. The only “door” the Canadians have been foolish enough to leave open is their borders. All manner of riff -raff are coming across the invisible line that serves as the largest unprotected boundary on the planet, and they are bringing the heavy artillery with them.