Day 2, Baggage

Yesterday I wrote about packing. Today's prompt could clearly be a continuation of those thoughts. But of course baggage has so many connotations. The emotional, the physical, the mental baggage that we carry with us, that weigh us down, but also fill our needs: all of it could be discussed.  Do we travel light, trusting that any forgotten items can be found along the journey? Or do we try to control our future, making sure we have brought everything we could possibly need? Most of our journey is not Everest or Borneo (and even those are no longer days and weeks away from supplies.) We aren't striking forth into the wilderness. Personal medications and ID and credit cards are all that one needs. But there are the intangibles. Most of my friends bring along something to read. I bring my knitting. E brings a mandolin. All of these fill moments of waiting, but they also create a sense of home, and that is more important, if the point of the trip is not to escape one's self.  I remember M's semi-nomadic friend, who traveled with a small suitcase but always included a small framed painting which, placed on a bedside table, transformed the smallest and most barren room into her personal sanctuary. 

So, these are all aspects of baggage that I could pursue, that I could write about, could make part of a fictional character's actions. I could totally wax philosophical, or I could try to emulate Tim O'Brien's list, Things They Carried.  But I'm not Tim O'Brien.

There is my unending search for the perfect luggage, of course. As some people collect shoes or wine (both of which indeed carry us to wonderful places in wonderful ways), I collect travel containers. I have totes that were given to me or to friends as SWAG at work conventions. Brightly-colored with mystic logos, usually made of  canvas or recycled plastic, they serve to hold groceries and craft supplies. I have totes that people have bought for me, some very sturdy indeed, with innumerable pockets and zippered closures, while others are made of nylon and fold up small to stuff into a bag that will slip neatly into pockets and other totes. There are backpacks that fulfill specific needs (holding cameras and lenses, holding laptops, holding camelbacks.)  The huge bags no longer travel with me, but hold a stash of clothes at my various homes away from home. I bought them during my really nomadic days, when most of my belongings were in storage and I was traveling nonstop. Midsize bags, overnight bags and carryon bags are also scattered about the U.S. A few went home with a visiting sister, replacing the paper bags she had accumulated on her trip. There's a shoulder bag that I bought in Florida to hold the portable piano keyboard (it being just a little too long for my other luggage).  There's the carryon I bought in Oslo to hold the extra purchases I had made during my 3 month stint petsitting. There's the most recent acquisition, a shoulder bag that I bought (also in Oslo) to use on my 10-day jaunt to London.  I left the larger, more unwieldy bag with the broken handle in the Radisson Blue luggage room, along with the sweaters and boots and cleats. 

All of these bags fill a purpose, and that purpose changes with my trips.  When I go on a hiking trip, I leave behind the fabulous overnight carryon (perfect for holding CPAP and electronic devices plus a change of clothes). Instead, I bring the daypack, with the walking stick poking out from the main compartment, catching on doorways and taking up too much space in the overhead binds. When my trip is for several weeks, I still use the travel closet, but it goes into a larger piece of luggage than its original hard-shelled carryon. Nothing is quite right for the purpose, it's always jury-rigged. I suppose there will never be a piece of luggage that is light, easily carried up and down stairs and onto the London Underground, and holds a walking stick neatly. Also, there are purses, none of which conveniently hold iPhone, passport, sunglasses, earbuds, keys and eyedrops all at once.

But, this obsession with baggage is truly that of a person of privilege. I think about Fiddler on the Roof, with Lazar Wolf carrying a bag with an umbrella on top as they all prepare to leave Anatevka. There is no perfect baggage for a refugee.