Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
LYNN YAEGER
Confessions of a Packing Maximalist
FROM
Travel + Leisure
W
HENMRS.CHARLOTTE
DrakeMartinezCardezaofPhiladelphiasettledintoSuiteB51-55on
the
Titanic
,shehadwithher14trunks,4suitcases,and3cratesofbaggagecontaining,among
other items, 70 dresses, 38 feather boas, 10 fur coats, and 91 pairs of gloves. We know this
because Mrs. Cardeza, who survived on Lifeboat 3, filed a staggering 18-page, single-spaced
insurance claim against the White Star Line, seeking recompense forthat lost ermine-trimmed
coat and those vanished veils and parasols.
There's a reason Mrs. Cardeza needed all that stuff: fashionable women of her day were
forever changing outfits—putting on and taking off different ensembles for dining, dancing,
and shopping, even donning elaborate tea gowns, which never actually saw sunlight but were
worn just for sitting around the parlor.
As fate would have it, I, too, have complicated wardrobe requirements when I hit the road.
And it's not only because I frequently travel to Europe to cover the biannual fashion shows,
where my colleagues appear to switch garments as often as an Edwardian matron (How do
they manage it? Do they FedEx Goyard steamer trunks to the Hôtel de Crillon? Sneak off to
Le Bon Marché to replenish hotel armoires daily?) but also because my personal style could
hardly be called minimalist—and, in fact, depends heavily on puffy frocks and layered petti-
coats. My taste is fiercely nonconformist (well, as fierce as you can be when you are prancing
around in a pink sequined dirndl and a scarlet velvet cloak).
I am sure that Mrs. Cardeza had a packing system, and I also have a carefully plotted
routine, honed over decades of trial and error. First, rest assured that I do not have anything
in common with those braggarts who spend 6 months in 12 capitals with two pairs of black
pantsandoneT-shirt,insistingthattheycandomagictrickswithscarves.Infact,mysituation
is quite the opposite: I frequently don't have the right things with me no matter how much I
bring, whether I'm going to the flea market in Tangiers or a nightclub in Moscow.
My predicament is exacerbated by the fact that whenever I check a bag, I am convinced
it will not appear unmolested on the other side of the world, so am reluctant to fill it with
anything more valuable than shampoo and skivvies. Let me be clear: I consider my wardrobe
more a collection of irreplaceable artworks than a bunch of things to wear. That my luggage
has never failed to arrive in no way allays this fear—in fact, it only reinforces my conviction
that the odds are against me, that the next trip will be the one with the baggage disaster.
Since my carry-on must do the heavy lifting, I have been forced to employ strategies that
can be more than a little embarrassing. Summer or winter, you will see me in my heaviest
