The Backpacker

      He boards the metro; a large backpack nudges other passengers as he walks by. He wears an old pair of blue jeans, faded and torn at the knee. His shoes are worn down, holes in the bottom, and laces permanently tied. Tucked in his back pocket is a map written in a language he doesn’t read. He stands tiredly, in a sort of daze, staring through his scratched black rimmed glasses. In his pocket jingles change from several countries, a mismatch of currency from several European nations. In his other pocket he holds his passport and black leather wallet which contains only a few Euros and a picture of his family: all smiling faces of his 3 brothers and his parents. His black and beaten wrist watch beeps the sound of 15:00.
    In his backpack he carries all the essentials: a shabby toothbrush, a half-empty bottle of toothpaste, an untouched packet of floss, Q-tips, gum, clothes, and a few light books that won’t wear him down after hours of walking through crowded stations and cramped sidewalks. His backpack has many pockets, each filled with odds and ends; pens, pencils, and utensils, a flashlight, batteries, and rubber bands. It holds stubs from museums, theaters, ski lifts, and parks. It holds a business card from an Egyptian bazaar, a pocket Spanish translator, and a pamphlet for hostels in Greece. It holds postcards of beaches, streets, castles, canals, whitewashed houses, and pictures of wistful landscapes and lakes. On the side pocket it holds his camera and mp3 player with the cords all tangled together.
    His dark green sweater is torn under the arm and he shifts his weight as the metro stops. He readjusts his backpack, unconsciously feels his pocket to make sure his wallet is still with him, and then steps off the metro into the crowd of people swarming around.