If you’d told me years ago that my closest and most complicated relationship on the road wouldn’t be with another human but with a 65-litre backpack named Bruce, I’d have laughed. Yet here we are—twelve countries, forty-seven airport security checks, three questionable ferry rides, one mild electrical fire, and a silent pact never to speak of Bratislava again.
And because every relationship needs honesty, this memoir is told partly by me… and partly by the bag who has seen (and smelled) more than any piece of luggage ever should.
Chapter 1: Sydney, You Fool
I met Bruce on a sunny Tuesday in Sydney, standing proud on the shelf of an outdoor store like he knew he was destined for greatness—or disaster. According to Choice Australia’s 2019 Backpack Durability Review (which I absolutely did not read before purchase), he would not have been their top pick. But I chose him anyway: large, blue, and sturdy-looking in the way that inspires irrational confidence.
“Finally,” Bruce later told me (without moving his zippers, because this is a sensible universe), “someone with weak shoulders and big dreams.”
I threw in two pairs of shoes, too many T-shirts, and an emergency jar of Vegemite. Bruce weighed in at 19.6 kilograms. A betrayal. The limit was 20.
“That’s on you, mate,” Bruce would say. “I didn’t ask to swallow half your wardrobe.”
Fair.
Chapter 2: Thailand — The Sweaty Years
Thailand was our first test. Bangkok welcomed us with humidity that slapped like a wet doona. Streets buzzed, tuk-tuks roared, and Bruce sat in the hostel corner judging me for thinking hiking boots were appropriate footwear for Khao San Road.
“This climate is 30% air, 70% human perspiration,” he grumbled.
We explored temples—Wat Pho glowing in the morning light, the Reclining Buddha as magnificent as every Lonely Planet article promises. Then we sweated our way up to Chiang Mai, where Bruce endured the infamous “hostel locker incident” in which he became wedged between a metal grate and a German backpacker named Hans.
“I was never meant to be in that position,” Bruce sulked. “Hans was very… enthusiastic.”
Still, Thailand strengthened our bond. I learned to pack lighter; Bruce learned that I never would.
Chapter 3: Vietnam — The Great Overstuffing
By Vietnam, we were communicating in a language made mostly of sighs. Hanoi’s Old Quarter dazzled, Ha Long Bay lived up to every glowing write-up from UNESCO’s World Heritage Centre, and I developed a mild addiction to bánh mì.
But the real drama unfolded during our 3AM departure from Da Nang.
I had bought souvenirs—ceramics, coffee beans, tailor-made shirts, a lampshade that made sense at the time. Bruce—already stretched to his moral and physical limits—reacted poorly.
“I’m not Mary Poppins’ carpet bag,” he snapped while I sat on him to force the zipper closed.
Airport Security Check #14 was where Bruce finally staged his rebellion. My bag exploded open on the conveyor belt like a confetti cannon of poor decisions. Shirts flew. Socks scattered. A customs officer caught the lampshade mid-air with the reflexes of an AFL forward.
The officer raised an eyebrow. Bruce said nothing but radiated smugness.
Chapter 4: France — Where Bruce Discovered Wine Culture
Paris was magical. Bruce hated it.
“The cobblestones are rude,” he complained. “And so are people who think backpacks belong on the Metro during peak hour.”
We wandered the Louvre, following the recommended route from Rick Steves’ Paris Guide (which, in fairness, saved us from walking 27 accidental kilometres). We picnicked by the Seine. We got lost trying to find our hostel because I cannot read maps, even digital ones.
But Bruce’s personal awakening came during a wine tour in the Loire Valley. He tasted—through smell-absorption—the spilled contents of a bottle of Cabernet Franc.
“I understand now,” he murmured. “This is why humans fight wars and write poetry.”
He insisted on being carried more gently after that, as though he were made of crystal.
Chapter 5: Spain — Tapas, Triumph, and Treason
Barcelona brought out Bruce’s dramatic side. Maybe it was the Gaudí architecture, maybe the ocean air, maybe the sangria that spilled on him during a beach picnic and sunk into his soul like fruity trauma.
“I did not consent to becoming a portable cocktail,” he snapped.
We strolled La Rambla, explored Sagrada Família (which, according to National Geographic’s 2024 Architectural Review, is somehow still under construction), and ate tapas until both of us felt like chorizo-filled beanbags.
Then disaster struck. A wheelie suitcase entered my life.
She was sleek. She was lightweight. She had spinner wheels.
Bruce saw me admiring her in a shop window.
“So that’s it?” he said flatly. “Forty airport checks together and you’re ready to roll away with someone who can’t even stand upright without help?”
I didn’t buy the suitcase, but Bruce never fully forgave me.
Chapter 6: Germany — The Enlightenment of Laundry Day
Berlin was where I discovered that traveling Australians have two universal experiences:
- Running into someone from Brisbane at a random bar, and
- Realising we have forgotten how to exist without laundry woes.
I fed a week’s worth of clothes and socks into a hostel washing machine. Forty minutes later, I found Bruce sitting at a table beside a Canadian traveler who was absentmindedly using him as a stool.
“This is my lowest point,” he whispered.
But Germany also taught Bruce resilience. After wandering the East Side Gallery, reading plaques from the Berlin Wall Foundation, and watching me cry at the thought of human division and hope, he softened.
“You humans aren’t so bad,” he admitted. “Fragile, confused… but interesting.”
Chapter 7: Greece — Sabotage on Santorini
Greece was hot—like, bushfire summer hot. Santorini glowed, mythical and blessed with sunsets that made even Bruce gasp (or maybe that was just the heat radiating off the cliffside).
One night, I attempted to impress a group of fellow hostel guests by joining them for an impromptu hike. But I was tired. And clumsy.
As I bent to hoist Bruce onto my back, he slid just enough to make me lose balance and topple sideways into a bush.
“You needed humbling,” he said.
The group laughed. I did not. But the photos taken that night later made it into a travel magazine’s “Backpacking Fails of the Year” spread (according to Escape.com.au’s 2023 Roundup). So, in a way… we both became famous.
Chapter 8: Homecoming — When a Bag Becomes Family
By the time we flew into Melbourne Airport, Bruce looked as though he’d fought in three wars and lost all of them. His seams sagged. His straps were sun-bleached. His front pocket smelled vaguely like fermented durian.
Security Check #47 was by far the gentlest. The officer barely raised an eyebrow when he swabbed Bruce for explosives.
“He’s seen things,” I explained.
The officer nodded. “Haven’t we all, mate.”
At home, I placed Bruce in my cupboard, promising him a year off.
“You’ll upgrade one day,” he said quietly. “Maybe you should. But don’t throw me out. I know too much.”
He wasn’t wrong. He knows every bad hostel I’ve stayed in, every travel romance that ended awkwardly, every midnight panic pack, every questionable sandwich consumed at an airport gate.
He knows me better than most humans do.
Epilogue: Why I Still Carry Him
Travel blogs often talk about “gear that changes your life,” quoting expert analyses from places like Outside Magazine or Adventure Travel Authority. But they rarely talk about the emotional baggage of… well, literal baggage.
Bruce didn’t just carry my clothes. He carried my triumphs, my mistakes, my sweat, my aspirations, and my ridiculous inability to fold anything properly.
And in return, I carried him across continents.
Someday I might buy a new backpack—something lightweight, ergonomic, recommended by every comparison article from Consumer Reports to Australian Hiker. But none will be Bruce.
Because as every traveller eventually learns:
It’s not the kilometres that make a journey meaningful.
It’s the gear that sticks with you—through airports, heartbreaks, sunsets, and socks lost in hostel dryers.
Even if that gear occasionally tries to sabotage you.