Some people collect postcards when they travel. Others, fridge magnets or train tickets.
Me? I carried a bed sheet.
It wasn’t anything fancy. A lightweight, soft cotton sheet, cream-colored and just big enough to fold into a corner of my backpack. When I first packed it, I wasn’t thinking about grand adventures. I just thought it might come in handy — something familiar to throw over strange beds.
It ended up being one of the smartest decisions I ever made.
From the humid hostels of Thailand to the chilly mountain lodges in Peru, that sheet was with me. In crowded dorm rooms where the mattress covers looked… questionable, it became a barrier between me and the unknown. In tiny seaside guesthouses where the air smelled of salt and linen was optional, it gave me a sense of home.
There was something comforting about the ritual. After a day spent navigating foreign streets, languages I couldn’t understand, foods I couldn’t name, I would unfold that sheet, smooth it out over the bed, and suddenly — it felt like I belonged. It was my small claim to comfort in a world of endless change.
I remember one rainy night in Lisbon. The hostel was overbooked, and I ended up sleeping on a makeshift cot in the lounge. The only thing between me and the scratchy surface was my travel-worn sheet. I wrapped myself up like a burrito, listening to the muffled hum of the city outside, and somehow, I slept better than I had in days.
Or that time in New Zealand, when a cold snap hit the South Island. I layered the sheet between two thin blankets and it trapped just enough warmth to make it bearable. It wasn’t luxury, but it was enough.
Over time, the sheet picked up the world’s signatures. A tiny coffee stain from a rushed morning in Vietnam. A frayed corner from being stuffed too many times into too-small backpacks. A faint scent of lavender from a sunny laundry day in Provence.
It became more than just a piece of fabric. It became a scrapbook. A memory keeper.
When I finally came home after a year of travel, unpacking that bed sheet was like unfolding a map of where I had been. Each wrinkle, each faded thread, told a story: late-night train rides, missed buses, chance friendships, nights staring at unfamiliar ceilings and dreaming of the next destination.
I still have that sheet. It’s a little worn out now, tucked away in the corner of a closet.
But sometimes, when I catch sight of it, I smile — because it reminds me of who I was: young, brave, a little reckless, and endlessly curious.
All from a simple bed sheet that traveled the world with me.