Unlike many of my fellow Get Lostonians, I don't often avail myself of the opportunity to travel abroad. Mostly because it costs too much and I am a woman of meager means. Thus, in my preparations for trips of such magnitude as my upcoming adventure to the East Coast of Australia for 16 days and a couple in Fiji for good measure, I panicked about packing. Diligently, I watched the televised Olympic Games for any clues of how I should fill my baggage. ("Limit 2 cases, 15 kilos, please." say all the airlines.) "How am I going to fit it all in?" I whimpered as I stood at the foot of the bed that overflowed with half my closet, a good third of my dresser drawers, all my camera equipment and sacred journals. Most of which I would surely never use. It was going to get brutal and I could taste the battle.

One bag! That was my goal. I would fit it all in one bag. However, that was before . . . soccer teams were featured donning coats and doing that funky chicken bit with hands under their armpits. . . before the early mornings of "evening news" in Sydney showed folks in sweaters and trousers. Spring had barely arrived and with my ever-thinning Floridian blood (though I hate to admit this) I might just need to gather warmer garb. "Noooo!" I cried. I bought shorts sets and tank tops for this trip. "One bag! I will fit it ALL in one bag." became my chant as beads of perspiration bejeweled my forehead and the empty black case cringed before me, awaiting my assault.

The gauntlet was thrown and sadistically I accepted the challenge. I will win the gold medal (or at least the Brownie badge) for packing all my gear into a single bag. Mind you, this was not a granddaddy of a case. It qualifies to fit in the over head compartment of the plane. This is my wheeled companion of shorter trips. I had used a rather large, wheel-less hard body case for a long trip ONCE. Did I mention I'm a fast learner? Of course I had my trusty backpack, but only a solitary suitcase was to leave my house that September morning. No way was I going to carry anything more than that on all the planes, trains, cabs and buses that would be carting my luggage and me about. Determined; focused and with clinched teeth, I set to packing.

Not being a woman of great elegance, evening dresses and high heels are never an issue, but hiking boots are a nightmare. And what about my faithful 54" walking stick? Alas, not this trip. Cotton shirts are replaced with knits and layers of tanks and buttondowns fill the case. First aid kit - rats! Yank out a few socks. Fold or roll. . . doubled or single. . . how many days can I wear a pair of jeans before they walk on their own? Underwear. Make up. . . what ever for? If I wear anything it will be red, white and blue. . . leave it, take it, leave it. Each potential garment held under the scrutiny of whether it would be acceptable to wear as is, out of the case, in frumpy-crump chic or do I need an iron? Iron? That requires an adapter. Nope, no iron. Okay - next, flannel jammies or a silky? It may be cold outside, but I'm not camping this trip - silkies win. More underwear. Accessories, accessories. Two pairs of earrings and a ring. Oh okay... a necklace too, another pair of earrings -. Stop! Koalas don't care if I have matching accessories. One good thick all round pullover cozy. Journals, pens, books to read, more candy than I need, (but will be sure to eat) and loads of film. Finally, the creme de le creme, my collapsible duffel for all the goodies that will find refuge in my bag and empty my wallet at the same time. Oh! and the toothbrush, and maybe another pair of underwear. Done! I stand gazing at the task now nearly complete. One step more.

Finally, the monumental question rears its taunting head, "Will it close?" Will those little nylon zippers be able to contain all the booty inside without screaming in pain or worse, popping teeth? Heart pounding, breath held, and eyes squinched tight, I firmly grasp the lid and bring it down. Zip, ziiiiip, zip, cha-ching, snap. I open my eyes cautiously, one at a time. . . success! I raise my arms in true Olympian style, shout, "Yes!" and let out the sinister chuckle of the triumphant villain. I may not be the marvel of those cross-country packers with all their possessions on their backs in a little knapsack. I have not reached that level, but as for this traveling novice, I will proudly strut my frumpy-crump chic to celebrate my packing prowess.

One bag! That was my goal. I would fit it all in one bag; and did. Tune in for next month's issue where you can read about all the things I really needed and forgot.

Gail Boysen is a regular contributor to Get Lost Magazine.