In my 26-year-old life, I have moved 17 times. Eight of those moves were in the last two and a half years. 17 times packing everything up, 17 times labelling it correctly, 17 times unpacking it. You would think I’d know how to do it right now, wouldn’t you? Well, I still pack the night before until 6 am. I still have an awful lot of possessions and of course, everything is essential to my well-being. I am really starting to understand the get-rid-of-everything-zen-activism one of my friends cultivates. Things hold you down, especially those annoying little things without their original packaging. But I am getting better: I have thrown away loads and loads, I have even given away my old computer (and I didn’t know how to destroy the hard disk, so if you find love letters all over the internet to you in a few days, it’s ELON’s fel. On Sveavägen, those guys.) This time, I consider myself especially genius because I numbered my boxes and wrote down all the content on seperate pieces of paper. After this move, when I frantically call my aunt (who will be taking care of the boxes because I don’t really live anywhere the first few weeks) to ask her to send me that pretty bottle from Skansen you can use to make juce in, she has a chance of finding it (box #3).
Just like the very first time when I moved to Stockholm, I was forced to choose Ryanair as my means of transportation. I sincerely despise that airline but circumstances made them the best match. This means, I can take a maximum of what, 15, 20 kilograms with me. My entire life in 20 kilograms – if you know me, you know I take 20 kilograms on a weekend trip to London. I feel like I am taking a trip around the world where you have to carry your luggage everything and therefore need to really think about what you are bringing. What do I need to survive? is the guiding question. Funny enough, looking at my suitcase, my answer is: my Dalahäst, my ball gown and the book “Invandrarna” (The Immigrants).