I have always been obsessed with luggage. Years before I felt a stab of lust over the suitcase in Desperately Seeking Susan I started collecting bags of all sorts. Back then the best vintage stuff was cheap – the thirty or so Enid Collings purses I own cost perhaps a dollar each, often far less. I have dozens of clutches made of gold lame, or black vinyl, or leather of all shades. I have beaded bags, and bags made to look like jeans, and an original Carpet Bag, tag still attached.
Even though I did not travel further away than my best friend Anne’s house down the road, I purchased all manner of suitcase and valise, the odder the better. These moved with me to college, around Olympia, to Shelton, Portland, Seattle, and even to England.
Those that were not ruined by the flooding en route are mostly in storage but some have functional purposes, holding similarly hoarded antique stationary and postcards, cracked yet precious cassette tapes, family photographs.
For years I used old airline bags to haul my stuff around every day; my favorites were from Pan Am and Japan Airlines. When they became popular with the ironic hipster set I put all of mine in a cupboard, muttering imprecations against fashion trends.
I used to travel with other bits from the collection – the vintage white leather makeup case with tassels accompanied me on a few tours with Ariel. The round locking suitcase went to Denver and Los Angeles. The matching red set of Sears-brand (and very sturdy) suitcases made several cross-country trips.
Age and infirmity (or rather, typing injuries and a broken tailbone) forced me to succumb to modern conveniences like ergonomically designed suitcases with wheels. This was of course sad, but locating the perfect suitcase proved to be a fine new obsession.
It took a few years of experimentation to find a bag that had everything I needed: small and lightweight enough to minimize hassle crossing London or NYC, the right size to take on board a plane, sturdy enough to check if necessary, and sufficiently flexible that it could be used for all sorts of trips.
While I agree with other travel writers about packing light, I have extenuating circumstances, like the need to attend dinner parties or perform for audiences. I am willing to wear crumpled clothing, but I do actually have to dress up.
It is impossible to shop in Cambridge so I set off on the Lessons in Taxidermy tour with all of my possessions in plastic grocery bags, hoping that somewhere along the way I would figure out a solution. In the middle of the trip, while resting in San Diego, I perfected my system.
The suitcase I selected measures ten inches by thirteen. In it I can pack everything I need: a dress, three black tshirts, four pairs of tights, jammies for when I do not have a private place to sleep, an umbrella, an electric toothbrush, medication, spare lipstick, packaged hand warmers, a scarf and three pair of gloves, three books and a half dozen magazines.
Half of the interior space is taken up by toiletries – sunblock, moisturizer, potions and creams that are also sunblock. The only soap I am not allergic to, nail clippers, assorted prophylactic and first aid solutions in case of emergency (you would not believe how often friends and even strangers inquire if they can “borrow” a Band-aid). When fully packed, the bag still has room for the additional detritus I collect; mostly that takes the form of stocking up on sunblock I cannot buy in Cambridge.
The runoff and the laptop go in an ugly briefcase that slips over the handle of the first case, saving my neck and back the pain of carrying it around the airport for hours. If circumstances (like, say, haggling a dealer down on the price of antique Russian marionettes that my son obviously had to have for Christmas) forced me to carry extra things home, I could buy a duffel to check as my only allowed piece of luggage. Each time I set off on a new trip I felt smugly satisfied that I had developed such a smart and compact approach to travel.
As I have discovered in the past, it is never wise to be smug. The new security restrictions came along and destroyed my system.
Checking the bag with the toiletries takes away my wheeled system and leaves my sensitive spinal column at risk. Even though BA changed the allowance to two checked bags, my poor twitchy brain cannot cope with the possibility of additional rule switches.
Obviously, I need a new bag to check, so I can use the carry-on as a briefcase and retain the duffel option. And since I spent an exhaustive week or so stalking luggage sites I figured I might as well try to find a not ugly briefcase for daily use.
The most significant complication in this scheme is the fact that there are no stores in Cambridge that sell my preferred suitcase, and I am not willing to pay what they charge in London. Instead, I ordered a suitcase to be delivered to my parent’s house, saving myself a huge amount of money.
This means that I am once again setting off on a long trip with all of my possessions in plastic bags; though this time I reckon I will use one from Selfridges rather than Sainsburys.
