Looking around the house, it’s hard to believe that all the scattered items will be moving in an orderly fashion out the back door and into their proper places before I have to leave for a couple of weeks. There’s also the ominous threat of Murphy’s Law kicking in: If Hans, the washing machine, Franz, the dryer, or Helga, the ancient roadster, goes on the fritz at the last second, I’m cooked.
Batty, the little hybrid SUV, will be at the body shop while I’m gone, which is why the elderly Helga will be filling in. I got her top up today, which cuts down on fatigue (turns out that the wind ruffling your hair is tiring after a few hours), and switched John McCane, my stoutest cane, over to her trunk so that it’ll be with me wherever I am.
Now, packing is for me a piece of cake. Starting during boarding school days, I’ve been at it for 75 years. My father was a genius organizer of space and packer of clothes, both laic and clerical; I suspect I’m in a tacit competition with his memory. Packing was especially important on the multi-day hikes of my youth. Nowadays I really enjoy seeing some of the tricks that Appalachian Trail hikers use to lighten, condense, and organize their gear, from tents, ground pads, and sleeping bags to stoves, fuel, pots, and food. There’s an art to it, and experience plays a large part in it all. I’ve found that it’s best to pack all at once, without interrupting the flow of thought, beginning with the feet and working my way up the body, then adding a jacket, rain parka, and a cap.
Weekend runs to Boston are easy. A pair of socks per day, underclothes, duds for special occasions, and a dopp kit with tools and potions. Longer trips like this one (Bea and I are joining a 10-day public broadcasting-sponsored tour of the Yorkshire Dales in England), require a bit more organization, not to mention a piece of luggage larger than a gym bag. I keep the mass of duds to a minimum by checking whether we’ll be more than one night in any hotel. If we are, that gives me time to wash what the Brits call smalls and, if I’m really lucky, dry them on the towel dryer in the bathroom.
I used to make lists, but gave it up because I became over-reliant on them and discovered that I was as likely to leave stuff off a list as forget it for real. Also, if you forget something small, like toothpaste, you’ll find it either in the hotel room or anywhere in town. (This is easier in English-speaking countries than in, say, France. I wish I had a video of me trying to buy dental floss in Aix-en-Provence. Marcel Marceau or Harpo Marx would have been impressed).
In latter years, and with advancing age, packing has become more complicated because of electronic gear requiring charging — hearing aids, smart watches, cell phones. Not only do you need the chargers and the European electric plug adapter, but a multiple-plug strip. On one of our trips, a schooner cruise on the Maine coast, Bea got the side of the bunk next to the hull, where she could hear gentle waves lapping at the side of the ship. I got the side closer to the loo, which was also next to the electric outlet. All night in that tiny space, whenever I rolled toward the edge of the bunk, I faced a nest of scary little snakes with green, red, and yellow eyes.
The one preparation that occupies an inordinate amount of time is filling the pill dispenser. You can’t rush that, lest you screw it up. And you have to remember to stash it in the driest spot in your luggage. If the dispenser gets the least bit moist, some of the pills stick inside when you try to shake them out. The temptation — indeed, the reflex — is to tap the container on something hard, at which all the lids pop open and the floor is covered what old typesetters call pi. This evokes the Gilbert and Sullivan line, “Though ‘Bother it!’ I may occasionally say, still I never swear a big, big ‘D’.” What, never?
The most important stuff, like passport, wallet, and plastic, goes into safe spots that will always be with you. The tour company gives each of us a necklace with a flat pouch that does that admirably. It makes you look like a tourist, but you can take comfort knowing there are other obvious characteristics, as well. Better to be as secure as possible. I’ve just taken a peek at the stuff that’s got to be done before I go out the door and launch into the trip. I don’t think it’s possible.
