I swear by my pumpkin-colored, ultra-light roller bag made by Skyway. Pick a bag that qualifies for carry-on luggage status and is easy to identify by color. I’ve yet to meet anyone who moaned about not taking enough. There’s something smugly satisfying about strolling off that too-long flight, breezing through customs and out the door, while the uninformed traveler hangs around the luggage carousel, waiting and hoping.īooks abound with light-packing tips but my number one rule is BE RUTHLESS. Now when I take a trip, all I take is my little bag. And choosing what to wear was as easy as putting on what I took off the night before. Gone was the daily chore of heave-hoeing my middle-class identity around Europe. Gone was the fear of having my stuff stolen. Losing my luggage - my travel clutter –changed everything. I was learning.įor the next two weeks, I explored Valencia and Madrid, all with one very small, very light bag. Instead of buying souvenirs, I took pictures. My petite ensemble fit easily into one small bag. With “Essential” as my mantra, I purchased just one skirt and blouse, a sundress, some underwear, a towel, a handful of toiletries and a swimsuit.
The next day I prowled through Barcelona’s shopping district. It had been a drag lugging my stuff up and down hotel stairs and in and out of the car, not to mention schlepping around train stations and crowded airports. Other than my toothbrush, I didn’t miss a thing. Or did it? When the shock subsided, I felt surprisingly elated, calm, released. The situation called for a really good cry. I visualized those nasty folks toasting their productive day with my vintage wine. I could just see my skirts and tops (with matching shoes and purses), short and long pants, coordinating sweaters and jackets, and a weighty selection of belts, jewelry, shoes and scarves for sale in a dusty, Barcelona flea market.Īnd along with my traveler’s checks and airline ticket, they also scoffed my French keepsakes, and an excellent bottle of Burgundy. Now, what was I to do? Gone were my suitcases with the essentials of any well-intentioned traveler. We’re old men.” True, these geezers were long past their flamenco-dancing prime, but surely they might have alerted someone? “What could we do?” they said with unconvincing looks of helplessness. In the time it takes to pop the cork of a lively Cordorníu, thieves pried open the trunk and helped themselves to my luggage-all of it.Ī gathering of regulars at a café across from the hotel watched the drama. I never suspected that while I peered under beds and into closets, my little car, locked and clearly visible, was having an adventure with Barcelona’s darker side. In those few extra minutes, this trip, and my future travel experiences, changed forever. As a final assurance, I scrambled up the two flights of stairs to inspect the room of this waterfront hostelry. I carefully parked my car close to the front entrance, ducked inside, and negotiated a three-day stay. A small hotel, crammed among merchant shops near the harbor, caught my eye. But the promise of El Greco, gypsy caves, and castanets spurred me across the border to Barcelona, Spain’s second largest city.įirst order of business: a place to stay. I’d spent two weeks immersed in the splendor of French vineyards, ethereal chateaux and provincial cuisine. The morning began with anticipation as I heaved my two burgeoning suitcases, and a mound of souvenirs, into a rented Fiat to motor over the Pyrenees Mountains, separating France and Spain. I wish they’d done it sooner.Īlthough a few years have passed since that inauspicious event, the details are as vivid as a summer sky in Spain. It took the sharp eye and quick fingers of Barcelona thieves to teach me just how unnecessary most of it was. Two large suitcases held what I thought was essential – stuff I now call travel clutter. Weeks before catching the 747, I meticulously organized a wardrobe for a month-long journey to Europe – my first trip overseas. Katherine Gibson and partner, Bob Unwin, travel light on trips abroad.
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