#packingessentials

“Are you okay? Where are you?” she replied with concern.

“I’m still in Munich. I’m so scared—I don't think I can do this,” I admitted.

I had no idea what to do next. Every choice seemed to lead to new challenges and endless difficulties.

“I don’t really know how to help you right now,” Kelly said after a pause, “but I recently saw this online: ‘People who accept failure make excuses, but those who succeed find ways to try again.’ I think you should stop overthinking. Pack up your laptop and set off again. The worst-case scenario is that you’ll end up right back where you started today. It won’t be any worse than that.”

I stared blankly at her message, then glanced at the gear scattered around me. Her advice didn't seem too hard to follow. Staying here wasn't going to solve anything. If I ended up crying while cycling back, so be it.

Following her instructions, I packed up my laptop, organized my gear, and hopped back on my bike. I pedaled south along the cycling path without looking back.

By nightfall, I reached the small town of Bad Tölz, south of Munich, without turning back.

The roadsides in Bad Tölz were pitch-black, with only scattered streetlights hinting at the direction of the road. I turned on all my lights, but they barely pierced the darkness. Not knowing where to camp, I ventured into a farm and asked if I could pitch my tent on the open ground by the barn.

A woman and her young son were eating dinner, but her wary eyes told me her answer before she spoke: no.

I moved on and tried asking a bald man with a beer belly. He also refused, not allowing me to camp on the ground behind the building. With little hope left, I knocked on the door of a small house and asked to pitch my tent in the tiny front yard.

A couple answered, followed by three curious children peeking out from behind them. The mother exchanged a few words with her husband in the local dialect, then nodded and said I could sleep on the wooden planks in the yard.

“Thank you! Thank you so much!” I exclaimed in German, overwhelmed with gratitude. I wheeled my bike into the yard and leaned it against the fence, relieved to have found a place for the night.

Setting up my two-second tent, I created a small space to call my own. I had nicknamed this tent “The Big Frisbee.” When a friend promised to lend me a tent during my preparation phase, I hadn’t worried about it. But a week before departure, I found out the tent wasn’t available.

To save money, I quickly searched online and found a lightweight tent on eBay for just 50 euros. It was under one kilogram and promised to set up in two seconds. Without hesitation, I bought it.

When it arrived, however, I realized I had overlooked one crucial detail: the folded tent was the size of a bicycle wheel. It looked like a massive frisbee and didn't fit anywhere on the bike.

After testing several positions, I ended up strapping it to the side of the saddlebags. It looked awkward and ridiculous, like a giant plate wobbling on my bike. Yet, with no better option, I decided function mattered more than appearance.

While cycling, the tent would sometimes flap like a bird’s wings or slide behind the rear wheel, screeching loudly and forcing me to stop and adjust it. It was clunky and destroyed any sense of elegance I had imagined for my journey. But at that moment, as I set it up in just two seconds, I decided the Big Frisbee wasn't so bad. After all, it was my first night camping.

After unloading my gear, including two saddlebags and a quick-release bag from the bike rack, I placed everything inside the tent. The quick-release bag was just the right size for my sleeping bag and inflatable mat. That trio—bag, sleeping bag, and mat—had been my makeshift bed during my time in Munich when I rented an unfurnished room to save money. Now, they were repurposed for life on the road.

Satisfied, I crawled into the tent, inflated the sleeping mat, and spread out my sleeping bag. I had bought the mat on sale at an outdoor gear store in Munich. Who knew sleeping mats had seasonal discounts?

Lying inside, I reflected on how life had already prepared me for this journey. In my unfurnished room, I'd stacked banana boxes from the supermarket to serve as shelves and used another box as a table. In hindsight, I'd already been living like a traveler.

One saddlebag contained spare bike parts, including six inner tubes, tools, and patch kits, topped with clothes that took up more than half the space. The other saddlebag held a small stove I had tested once before departure, a pot just big enough for instant noodles, a book for entertainment, four colorful scented pens for children I'd meet in Central Asia, and toiletries. I had even packed a hairdryer, a hot water bottle, and makeup. I had plenty of reasons to justify their inclusion, though now they felt like luxuries.

I also brought a large black blanket, which I had crammed into the Big Frisbee before leaving. For dinner, I ate an energy bar from the quick-release bag, knowing it wasn't wise to cook instant noodles on someone else's front yard.

As I wrapped myself in the blanket and sleeping bag, I pulled out a notebook to jot down the events of the past two days. My body was exhausted, and the freezing air seeped into the tent. Even with my layers, including a discounted hat with chin straps, I couldn't stop shivering.

“Let's head south quickly. It must be warmer there,” I muttered to myself, teeth chattering.

The night was long and cold, but somehow, I endured it. At dawn, I heard the kids saying goodbye to their dad as he left for work, followed by the mother urging them off to school. I stayed in my sleeping bag, waiting for the house to quiet down before stepping out to pack.

When the mother returned from walking her kids to school, I had just finished packing.

“Thank you for letting me stay here,” I said in my clumsy German, trying to express my gratitude.

“You're welcome. Did you sleep well? We were so worried—it’s so cold outside,” she replied, her tone softening.

“Thank you! I'm fine, just a bit cold. I'm so grateful for your kindness,” I said, though in truth, I hadn't slept much.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” she asked.

“If possible, I’d love some water—hot water, if you have it,” I said. My bottle was almost empty, and the cold was biting.

“Of course. Have you had breakfast? Would you like to come in for some hot tea?”

“Yes, please!” I answered quickly, abandoning all pretense of modesty.

I spent half an hour inside their warm house, savoring a cup of hot tea. The warmth felt like heaven. Though I wanted to stay forever, I knew better than to overstay my welcome. After explaining my journey, I thanked the mother and stepped back into the cold.

Standing on the road, I looked toward my next destination. For the first time, I felt genuinely excited. The road home was long, but as long as I packed my gear, mounted my bike, and pedaled forward each day, I'd keep moving toward my goal.

I took a deep breath, letting the cold air fill my lungs. Although nothing had changed—my challenges remaind—I felt a newfound confidence. Yesterday, I had conquered a fear, and now I was ready for what lay ahead.

I had taken the first step, brimming with renewed energy.

“Let’s head toward the Alps!” I said to myself, smiling.

--

Closing Remarks:

✨ Your Turn: Packing for life’s biggest journeys isn’t just about gear—it’s about priorities. What essentials would you bring to take that first step? Share your thoughts in the comments!

Half the luggage

Departure commemorative photo

Bike path

First camp

📅 Time Frame: This story chronicles my journey across two continents between November 2013 and October 2014. Published independently in Taiwan in 2021, it is now shared as an English serialized novel through AI translation, connecting with friends worldwide to share this journey of personal growth.