Crazy Travel Stories: The Poor Man at Australia Immigration

Note, this post was written earlier in Quarantine but our site has been going through some renovations. Sorry for the delay!

Ah, we’re still in quarantine. It feels like this will never end. Shout out to our healthcare professionals and essential workers for keeping us all safe. 

Back to my life in quarantine. 

I haven’t worn pants without an elastic waistband in 5 weeks. 

I have day sweatpants and night sweatpants. 

Wine night is every night. 

I think I washed my hair today or maybe it was yesterday. Your guess is as good as mine. 

Still thinking about all my weird travel stories. This one in particular is short and sweet. And just offers insight into how I pack. 

So, a little backstory. I am an efficient, but overpacker.  I pack enough to give myself a few options, but I typically plan out my outfits for every day. Where I really overpack is toiletries. 

This story is about the poor immigration officer who had to encounter my toiletry packing. 

In 2017, my husband and I took our first international trip together to Australia and New Zealand.  The poor man had never flown for more than 3 hours and has flying anxiety. Sticking him on a flight for 23 hours?

 What a great idea! Brilliant!

In other blog posts, I’ll talk about our trip — favorite spots, tour recommendations and how to survive a long haul flight — but this post is strictly about the young gentleman at border control flying back in Australia from New Zealand.

Remember what I said about overpacking toiletries? When I say that, I am specifically talking about lady products. 

I pack as if I’m going to have my period every day and will be losing gallons of blood. Literally the amount I pack for, it’s almost as if I’m assuming that my body will be drained of blood. Even before being on birth control, I never encountered that on a monthly basis so don’t ask me why I pack this way. 

^Literally, this has never been me, but you would not know that from how I pack.

So waddling through security.  

It’s 6 AM. 

We’re tired but had a blast in New Zealand and my man is now a seasoned flier and knows the Quantas security video by heart.

As we’re going through immigration, I get stopped with my backpack for a random bag check.  

Sure, bro. Go through my backpack. I literally have nothing in there so have at it. 

Now my backpack is from LL Bean and has so many pockets and zippers that it’s a bit ridiculous. So each pocket is a surprise! With that many pockets, I don’t think I have to tell you that I have no idea what pocket my lady items are in. 

The poor immigration officer is going through my bag, one pocket at time and keeps asking if there’s anything sharp/anything he needs to be careful of in the next pocket. I can tell he’s a little exhausted by the amount of pockets LL Bean PROVIDES.

 And tbh, I was also sick of LL Bean’s backpack bullshit. This thing had so many pockets, it was easy to overstuff it by accident and learn later that that shit ain’t gonna fit under the seat in front of you. #strugcity

Back to the charming officier. 

Finally, we reach the last pocket.  The bottom of this backpack is one giant pocket to keep laundry or shoes away from other valuables. I cannot emphasize enough how big this pocket is.

A pocket that I have filled with an ungodly amount of tampons/pads.

As the officer is slowly undoing the zipper, I remember what is in this pocket. I turned to my husband and just uttered ‘oh no’ with a horrified expression. 

In a matter of seconds, that felt like years, a TIDAL WAVE of lady products came spilling out of the backpack. 

The officier turns bright red and has clearly never seen so many products in his young life.

He’s stuttering. 

He’s shooketh.

He has just realized that he needs to book some time with the Lord Jesus to overcome this experience.

My husband is speechless. 

Just staring at me wondering why I am like this.

And me? I am no longer horrified.

I am cackling because using my female wiles to crush the patriarchy is my main goal in life, and I had clearly just dealt a devastating blow. 

I make hard eye contact as I get my backpack from the officier. 




And that wraps up this crazy travel story as it’s wine and fancy cheese time. Some people call it dinner but I like to call it like I see it. 


Fancy cheese.

Tune in whenever (we’re at the point where I literally have no idea what day it is anymore, but def know the fucking year) for more crazy travel stories. 

 I’ll still be here.

Maybe I’ll be drunk. Maybe I’ll be sober. 

But I will definitely be loaded up on cheese.

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