Ode to a Wallet

On my Christmas list this year: a new wallet.

My current wallet has been with me for four years. In 2005, when the wallet was brand-new, it traveled with me to Thailand. There, in an umbrella factory in Chiang Mai, an artist charged me all of two dollars to paint an intricate Chinese dragon on the fresh black leather:

Since then, I’ve traveled all over the world. The wallet was with me when I bought pirated travel books from street children in Siem Rep, Cambodia. The wallet was with me when I sailed the dragon’s teeth islands of Ha Long Bay, Vietnam. The wallet was with me on our Alaskan cruise, popping out whenever we bought souvenirs in Skagway, in Juneau, in Ketchikan. 

The wallet was with me in Venice, where I bought Tarot decks from an ornate glass case in the back of a tobacconist’s shop … and again in “La Rouge and Le Noir,” a Tarot shop in Paris … and again in when I bought Tarot decks from Edge of the Circle books in Seattle.

The wallet has rested on many a restaurant tabletop, waiting for the return of my credit card in places like Hell’s Kitchen Pizza (Vancouver), Sailor’s Thai (in Sydney), Mary Mac’s Tea Room (Atlanta), La Bombonera (Puerto Rico), and Grapes & Beans and in Clayton, GA. It was with me when I bought gelato for the family in Florence and when I bought a steaming “submarine” — a mug of hot chocolate, made with a wedge of chocolate that rises and falls as it melts in the steamed milk — in Buenos Aires.

The wallet was in my hip pocket at Clyde’s mother’s funeral. It was there when Clyde’s father was recovering from valve replacement surgery. It was there when my mother was diagnosed with cancer. It was there when the doctor declared her cancer-free. 

In restaurants, in hotels, on subways, in churches, at work, people have seen me produce the wallet, have spotted the dragon, have asked about its origins, and have heard the story of the street-side artist who dabbed and stroked it into place, freehand, from memory. The dragon remained bright and vibrant for at least four years — remarkably intact for something slipped into and out of a pocket three times a day for fifteen hundred days.

And then: about a month ago, someone saw the wallet and said, “Wow. Time to replace that.”

And he was right. The dragon is faded. The seams are loose. The stitching that holds the lining to the leather has finally failed, and whenever I remove one credit card, the others tend to spill out.

My new wallet — a nice one, a gift from Clyde — is slick and black sturdy. Later this week, it will travel with me on my first trip to Barcelona. Three weeks from now, it will travel with me on my first trip to Chiang Rai. These will be fine adventures, and the new wallet and I will be off to a good start. 

Even so, I find myself having difficulty adopting the newcomer and putting my trusty old friend aside. Every time I pull the new wallet out — every time I spend a euro on a Coke or three hundred baht on a massage — I’ll miss seeing that faded Chinese dragon, which has become a symbol for many miles traveled, many memories made.