I leave in six days, so of course I spend at least two hours every day playing the suitcase game: take things out, put things in, resituate items that have already been packed, write lists of items yet to be packed, weigh suitcases, discover they are overweight. Lather, rinse, and repeat.
For an international flight, all passengers are allowed two pieces of checked baggage (each weighing under 50 lbs), one carry-on (be it small suitcase, backpack, bag, etc.), and one “personal item” (purse, laptop bag, or briefcase). My luggage line-up is as follows:
One large red Victorinox suitcase, to be checked;
One large grey Bric’s suitcase, to be checked;
One small red Swiss Gear suitcase, to be carried on;
One beautiful brown leather messenger bag recently acquired in Florence and being used as a laptop bag, to be carried on;
One short black Gap peacoat (purchased used for $6 after I lost my favorite one from Nordstrom), to be worn on because it will not fit in any of the aforementioned suitcases.
Most of the luggage space currently packed is taken up by the following items:
Ten sweaters;
Eight pairs of jeans;
One long Macy’s peacoat;
One pair black Mephisto rainboots, purchased two years ago in London;
Two sets of very warm pajamas.
Yes, at first this might seem like overkill. Surely, you’d think, there is occasionally sun in London. BUT YOU’D BE WRONG. The weather in London today is partly cloudy, with highs in the 60s. The date of my arrival, there is a 20% chance of rain — but that’s a good thing, because if I were flying in the day before, that probability would skyrocket to 60%. I am already convinced that I will return home in the form of a (barely) living popsicle.
But on the plus side, I figure that as long as the weather is the greatest worry on my plate, I’ll do just fine. And I still have six days to try to shove my running shoes, post-it notes, and shampoo into one of those suitcases. That’s enough time for me to make it work.
The view out the library window. This is why I love London. (And yes, there is a graveyard in the middle of my university campus.)
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed - and gazed - but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

(Text by William Wordsworth, images by me. Because the unbelievable thing about late March in London is the sudden upwelling of daffodils.)