I thought the matching three-piece luggage set was a terrible Christmas present. Seventeen-year-old me was counting the days until high school graduation, but I resented the implied message: my parents were eager to push me out the door. I cried petulant tears.
The suitcases were black—the world’s most popular color, but also the most frequently lost or mistakenly stolen. To distinguish my suitcase from the others, I tied a maroon and white pompom to the handle. The yarn came from Grandma’s stash—leftover from the college-colors blanket she lovingly knitted for my dorm bed.
Appropriately accessorized, the suitcase made its inaugural trip on my first solo (and international) flight to London. We made our way to the exit where my aunt was supposed to be waiting. Slightly panicked, the suitcase and I faced our first test. Using my parents’ AT&T card, I called my missing aunt. “Can you get yourself on the train to Victoria Station?” she asked. “I’ll meet you there. Do NOT tell your mom I forgot to pick you up.” Our adventures continued in Wales where I had beans for breakfast, met Peter O’Toole dressed as a (literal) Queen, and wore a low-cut, corseted historical costume in a film. The compliments on the dress varied from “You have beautiful alabaster skin” to “Your boobs look great!” (Thanks, Grandma.)
Years later, a new convertible suitcase/backpack with a nineties color scheme of purple and teal (but still adorned with yarn) traveled back to London where I worked as an authentic Texas waitress in a cantina serving fajitas and “flat pancakes” to Brits and tourists. We traveled to Scotland in search of the Loch Ness monster and “hairy coos,” and slept in churches converted to unheated youth hostels. I used every piece of clothing in that suitcase to keep warm at night while hoping I wouldn’t accidentally strangle myself with my scarf while I was sleeping.
By my late twenties the suitcase of choice was a black duffel bag that was large enough to hold a body but small enough to fit rolled up in a backpack. This time, Paris was the destination, and the suitcase saw weekly use as I lugged my still-wet clothes from the laundromat up seven flights of stairs to my apartment. The apartment’s charms included a glimpse of the top of the Eiffel Tower if you stuck your head out of the tiny garret window, and its status as the place where I lived when I met the man who would become my husband.
Every time I pack a suitcase, I think about all the new beginnings and the ends of chapters it represents. The luggage tags remind me of people I love, places I’ve been, and jobs I’ve had. I also remember the bratty teenager who didn’t realize what a priceless gift those suitcases were. When our daughter was seventeen, we got her a giant white suitcase on wheels. Last summer she packed it full of university-branded athleisure wear. I cried bittersweet tears.
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Art by Lara Schaberg.
