The Dump Shit In and Pray method really works—but not when there’s a thunderstorm

Jill and I are very different packers.

Her method is precise, organized, systematic and requires a lot of thought. She starts with a list, the template of which she has been using for years, and begins packing days before departure.

My method – if it can even be called that – can only be described as haphazard. Sometimes I begin with a list, sometimes I swipe hers and copy it but most of the time, I start packing a few hours before leaving for the airport, tossing stuff into a suitcase and willing it shut.

You’ll be surprised to know that this method works too – I’ve never left behind anything important. (Except that one time I forgot to bring a memory card reader to Singapore. But that was remedied by a 2 a.m. trip to Mustafa.)

Packing after a long visit to the States is a little more complicated but Jill is equipped for that. She carries with her a weighing scale for suitcases so she can make sure her luggage does not go over the weight limit. Boxes are a bit more challenging but Jill can handle that too, no problem. She weighs every single thing that goes into the box, jotting down the numbers on the side of the box and computing them, making sure the total is 23 kilos or under.

I also use a different approach when packing to go back home to Manila. It’s called “Dump Shit In and Pray.”

Janna, noticing my cavalier approach, asked, “Tita Pam, how much have you paid for excess baggage?”

“I’ve never paid for excess baggage,” I said. “I just use my charm.”

I was joking, of course. I have no delusions about being charming. Most days, I embrace my repulsion. But it’s true – I’ve never paid for excess baggage. The “Dump Shit In and Pray” method really works. Even when I go over the limit, the airline people usually let it slide. (Except for that one time a bitch decided she wanted my W magazine in exchange for the extra kilos. The W magazine that featured Angelina’s portraits that were shot by Brad. I never found another copy of that magazine again. I was furious.)

I chalk it up to luck, not charm.

When it became obvious that the ton of books and magazines I wanted to bring home might cause problems, Jill said, “Janna, get some of the books.”

“No,” Janna replied, grinning. “I want to see Tita Pam use her charm.”

At the airport, we checked in at different counters.

My suitcase was weighed. 22.4 kilos. Good. Just under the limit.

Then it was my box’s turn. 25 kilos. Holy shit.

But the airline girl didn’t bat an eye. “Ms. Pastor, here’s your boarding pass for your flight to Hong Kong and here’s your boarding pass for your flight to Manila.”

“Thanks,” I said. I was so relieved that I gave her the copy of Sophie Kinsella’s Wedding Night which I was planning to leave at the airport for a stranger to find and adopt.

But I shouldn’t have been worried about excess baggage. I should have been worried about the flight.

The Hong Kong to Manila flight.

The flight from New York to Hong Kong had its turbulent moments – annoying but completely normal. The flight from Hong Kong to Manila was crazy. For a few minutes, I was convinced I was about to die.

We had been stuck on the runway for close to an hour. There was a thunderstorm, the pilot said. None of the planes could land or takeoff.

We could see that it was raining really hard. Then it slowed to a drizzle. The captain announced that we were number ten on the queue.

When we finally took off, it was pouring again. Sheets of rain hit the plane’s windows. The plane shook. Lightning flashed. It was like a scene from a disaster movie.

That’s okay, I told myself, in a few minutes things will be calm and you can watch Andy Samberg pretend to be a Brooklyn cop.

But I was wrong.

Janna, who had a window seat, leaned over and said, “Scary!”

Her screen had been set to the plane’s outside camera. She switched it off.

I tried to be reassuring even if I wanted to pee my pants. “It’s okay, we just need to exit Hong Kong to get away from the storm.”

I stared at the moving map on my screen, silently telling the plane to hurry, hurry, hurry and leave the dangerous weather behind.

Minutes later, Janna leaned over again. “I’m freaked out!” She shut the window so she wouldn’t see the lightning. Other passengers did the same.

You know things are fucked up when none of the flight attendants have gotten up and you’re already many minutes into the flight.

At one point, I heard the sound that usually meant the seatbelt sign had been switched off. I sighed, relieved. But I looked up and it was on again.

The plane continued to shake, lurch and drop. People stifled their screams. The lightning was nonstop, illuminating people’s terrified faces. Except Jill’s. Jill was sleeping. I’m not kidding.

I kept thinking, “This is it. Oh my god. We’re going to die.” I gripped the armrests. I wanted to puke.

Suddenly, things became calm. The flight attendants set to work, acting like nothing happened. I watched Andy, ate bad pita and good popcorn, and laughed with Jill and Janna.

But I shouldn’t have been worried about the flight. I should have been worried about the box.

We stood at the baggage claim area, watching other people’s luggage go round and round.

Finally, my box appeared, the first sign of our baggage. “Oh no! It looks wet!” I said.

And it was wet. So wet that when I tried to lift it from the baggage carousel, it crumpled like a soggy newspaper.

Fuck that fucking thunderstorm.

I put my hand through one of the box’s holes and touched wet fabric. My clothes. Fuck.

I spent the entire ride from the airport trying to catalog the contents of the box, my heart pounding like crazy.

And when we arrived, I tore into it. My limited edition Lands’ End tote bag from Random House and my toiletry kit were wet. My magazines were damp, Lorde’s Teen Vogue cover ruined. “Si Lorde pa!” Janna and I said.

My clothes were completely soaked, as if they had just come out of the washing machine.

A notecard pack was soggy – I gasped as the box fell apart in my hands.

My books were drenched – the advance reader copies given to me at Random House and, the most heartbreaking one: the compilation of Edgar Allan Poe’s stories and poems that I bought at his home in Philadelphia.

Yeah, fuck that fucking thunderstorm.

But I still consider myself lucky. I have a lot to be thankful for.

Because, for some strange reason, I had packed my new Nikes with their boxes still in plastic bags, saving them from the rain.

The waterproof eco bags I added to the box at the last minute provided extra cover.

I had also unwittingly protected most of the notecards by packing them inside plastic bags.

Most of the pasalubong survived unscathed. Elsa and Anna were still making music. The bag of cotija cheese was fine.

The books I bought at Strand, protected only by my knit cardigan, were miraculously in perfect condition.

The wet clothes? They were all old. My new ones were in my suitcase, untouched by the rain.

I had hand-carried all the books signed by Ruth Reichl and Gillian Flynn. They were safe and dry.

As were my pairs of Doc Martens, new and old.

And my notebooks and my work files, which were in my backpack.

And all my bracelets – Cruciani, Alex and Ani, Venessa Arizaga.

And my sea salt Lindt truffles.

And all my wires and chargers and cables.

And the plane didn’t crash.