The following is pretty much a verbatim account of my thoughts this week:
“We’re going on a trip we’re going on a trip we’re going on a trip we’re going on a trip when can we leave oh my god why haven’t we left yet we’re going on a trip gelato I’m coming for youuuuuuuuuuu”
Needless to say, I’ve been a model employee.
This will not be the first time John and I have been to Europe together. Eight years ago or so, we scored tickets from San Francisco to London at an absolute steal of a price, so we took a very low-budget trip to England and Paris for ten days.
This was a mistake. Not the trip itself- we had a lovely time, (except for a harrowing moment where John launched a champagne cork directly at some priceless antique vases at our friend’s house after pretending he was a champagne-opening expert). But it was a mistake to take my first international trip with John when he was but a wee college lad and we were on a crazy shoestring budget.
Why?
Because on that trip, John packed everything he needed into his regular-sized Jansport daypack. Much like this one:
And now he has these laughably unrealistic expectations about packing, and the amount of luggage one brings on a two-week international trip.
Specifically, his view is: one carry-on sized duffel. For both of us. To share.
Now look, I am all for traveling light. The idea of schlepping a 50-lb wheeled suitcase over the narrow cobblestone streets of a charming European city as I search for my hotel gives me hives.
But seriously: one bag? Two people?
I agreed to give it a shot and see if all our stuff could fit comfortably. We each made a list of what we needed to bring, and sat down to compare lists.
Pseudo: I’ll start. I need 5 pairs of underwear, four tshirts,….
John: FIVE pairs of underwear? No. You get two.
Pseudo: Seriously? Fine. Two pairs of underwear. I’ll wash one every night. You’d just better hope I don’t have a repeat of the horrible, inexplicable butt sweat incident of aught-six, or you’ll wish you’d let me bring five. Moving on: four tshirts.
John: Four? Sheesh. Fine. For me, six pairs of socks.
Pseudo: I only get two pairs of underpants, yet you get six pairs of socks?
John: It’s going to be hot as balls. I am a boy. My feet sweat. Socks don’t wash and dry as fast in the sink as underpants. I need six.
Pseudo: Fine, I’ll concede. Sweaty feet are gross. I’ll let you have six pairs of socks. But if you get six pairs of socks, I get three pairs of shoes.
John: THREE PAIRS OF SHOES?
Pseudo: Two are sandals! Which are small!
John: Couldn’t you just bring one pair of sandals?
Pseudo: I need a backup. You know people in Europe don’t pick up after their dogs. What if I step in a pile of dog poop? I need backup sandals.
John: Show me the sandals.
(Pseudo demonstrates their foldable, smooshable properties)
John: Fine.
And so on.
We laid it all out, and it turns out it does all fit in one carry-on size duffel bag. Except that duffel bag weighs approximately one million pounds, and is full to the top, leaving inadequate room for me to purchase Italian tchotchkes.
So we compromised, and decided to bring two small duffel bags. I even persuaded John to check them, since we’ll be held up at passport control anyway so it’s not like we’re saving huge amounts of time by not checking like you would on a domestic flight.
I haven’t yet told him that to celebrate the increased space, I’ve purchased a new sundress at Target, bringing my total number of dresses to two. I expect we will have words.
