Room For Both Kinds

COLLISION 00021

As my return trip to Vilnius, Lithuania quickly approaches, I’m reminded of a leather goods store I popped into on my last day there.  I was two-thirds into a three-week trip through Poland and the Baltics.  I was still waking up every morning, wherever my travels took me, trying on the sometimes suffocating, sometimes freeing role of an unemployed aspiring travel writer.  

On this day in particular, it fit like a glove.  I felt invincible. I remembered being in high spirits and well-fed.  It felt like I could see every shade of blue gratitude in the cloudless Lithuanian sky above.  I was excited to soak up every last bit of the city I could before I left for Tallinn, Estonia later that afternoon.  The clock was ticking, but the plan was simple: re-canvas and shop Vilnius’ picturesque old town streets.

I had just had an ambitious lunch at Lokys, a historic family-run restaurant. I was inspired. Full up on local Lithuanian flavors. Some had landed just right and still make my stomach growl today, like the Cepelinai, which looked like neighboring Poland’s Pierogis on steroids.  Not as heavy as I had judged them at first sight to be, they were stick-to-your-ribs delicious. They struck me as the ultimate comfort food.  I will definitely be going back for seconds, and probably thirds, when I do Vilnius all over again this fall.

Other choices might have been more of an acquired local taste, like the Lithuanian fruit wines I sampled tableside from a test-tube rack.  One by one I sipped down the line, tasting, it seemed, every color of the rainbow.  I did what I could to hold back wince and grimace, as repressed taste memories from all those revolting children’s cough syrup flavors came roaring back with a vengeance.

I grew up in sweet wine country.  I knew better.  And yet my rule, when traveling and trying familiar things in new places, is never to assume I do.  

For reasons I can no longer recall, I had it in my head that afternoon that I desperately needed a backpack.  I had given myself a direct order not to leave the Baltics without one.  My whole life, I had never been much of a backpack person.  I suppose I had used a branded one from time to time toward the end of my tenure at Wilson.  But it had long since been donated, having too closely embodied the idiom ‘carrying around too much baggage.’

Looking back now, I simply wanted to fill that empty shelf in my closet with something one-of-a-kind from my new life and travels.  It was symbolic. I had to appreciate that.  I did my research and found what I believed was the perfect store just a short walk away.

The first thing I noticed when I walked into Sirena was how much it smelled of craftsmanship.  An impressive, but not overwhelming assortment of different-shaped and different-sized leather goods was displayed on shelves and tables around the well-kept store.  Two young women sat behind a desk that doubled as a makeshift workshop table and checkout counter.  They greeted me warmly when I walked in.

As I browsed, I vacillated between two styles.  I knew one was impossibly too small.  I still really liked it.  

Waiting for inspiration or permission-to-buy to strike, I chatted with one of the store clerks and learned she was from one of the small towns outside of the capital city.  She had never traveled out of her country before and found commuting into Vilnius intimidating enough.  

I liked her immediately.  There was something naturally endearing and sweet about her way, the questions she asked and the honesty and naïveté with which she carried herself.  She was the kind of person who just carried her good soul on the outside. I envied her view of the world for just a moment.  I also made up my mind I was buying something in this store.  If only to return to this encounter with her and this feeling again.

She was from sweet wine country, too. And I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d still drink that wine if I still lived back there.  There was no shame in that, I realized, as much as that thought shook me.  The world needs some of us to leave and some of us to stay.  It needs us both.

I bought the bigger of the two bags.  I almost immediately regretted that decision too.  I hated on myself all the way to Tallinn. How could I have walked out of that store with a backpack that had no interior pockets or compartments, no secure way to close the top, and was nothing more inside than an unfinished bucket of a bag?  Beautiful, soft cognac leather on the outside, yes. Practical for an obsessive organizer like me, no. No. No.

I brought the backpack with me on my next trip.  The first time I really used it in Slovenia, I couldn’t believe how perfect in practice it really was for me.  I didn’t need interior pockets or compartments. I needed to store my stuff my way. 

I felt a sense of relief wash over me.  And then I remembered that young clerk. 

Yes, of course I thought. There’s room for both kinds.