Every trip, I solemnly vow to pack light. This time, I think, I’ve got it. Minimalist. Sleek. A bag so light it could float on a gentle breeze. France would be no different—or so I thought
Cue the scene: Sydney Airport, Singapore Airlines check-in counter. I heaved my bag onto the scale, brimming with confidence. 23 kilos, the attendant chirps. Excusez-moi? Surely, they mean someone else’s bag. But no. Somehow, my so-called “light” packing strategy had birthed a monster.
I blame the cubes—those smug, internet-recommended packing cubes. They promised organisation, not back strain. Add to that my backpack, filled with “essential items” (which remained untouched the entire flight), and I resembled a weary Sherpa trekking to Gate Everest.
At Changi Airport, the fun really began. My flight gate was a slippery eel, wriggling from one end of the terminal to the other. Each time I found it, they moved it again. There I was, sweaty and staggering under my unholy backpack, envying those with wheeled bags gliding like swans on a pond. Oh, to have a swan.
Arriving in Paris at Charles de Gaulle, a handsome young man named Tariq held a sign with my name. Merci, universe, I thought. Tariq whisked my bag into the car with such ease. Was my bag actually heavy, or had I been hallucinating? Tariq’s departure left me alone with the carpeted hallways of the hotel, where my suitcase wheels lost their will to live. Why do hotels have carpet? As I dragged the reluctant bag, I felt every tendon in my shoulder weeping.
I rifled through the bag in my room, desperate to find the deadweight. Winter clothes. Shoes. Hair tools. Each item begged for clemency. “You’ll need me!” they cried. The bag stayed intact.
The real saga began on the Paris-to-Arles train. Why trains need steps—interior steps, no less—is beyond me. I heaved my bag aboard with the grace of a beached whale and promptly abandoned it on the lower level while I sought my booked seat on the upper deck. If someone wanted to steal 23 kilos of misery, they could have it.
Of course, the train was delayed due to a break down ahead. Naturally. We disembarked at Avignon, where I performed the bag transfer shuffle: lift, drag, yank, repeat. A local train arrived. Hooray! No steps! Just…a gaping chasm between the platform and the train. My suitcase wheels promptly wedged into the gap. For one wild moment, I considered letting it tumble onto the tracks. Let it go, I thought. Let freedom ring. Kind strangers intervened.
By the time I reached Arles, I was a husk of my former self. The station greeted me with 15 steps down and 15 more up. I stood on the platform, resigned to my fate. A charming French woman appeared like an angel in stripes, helping me haul the bag down and up. No taxi in sight. I staggered on the cobblestones along the dyke, me dragging the bag like an unwilling pet, for what felt like an eternity. At last, I reached the house—only to find two flights of stone stairs awaiting me. I unpacked downstairs, cube by cube. Cardio for the day: complete.
My departure was a déjà vu of disaster. No taxi? No problem. I’d perfected the art of glaring at my bag while waiting for divine intervention. A house cleaner (bless her) called another taxi for my journey to the station for Toulouse. At the connecting stations, I breezed through lifts and escalators, now an expert in luggage gymnastics. Two more trains and steps. My arms might’ve resembled noodles, but they were strong noodles.
The final blow came in Paris. After a fog and flight delays and a detour through British Airways’ chaos, my bag decided it had had enough. It went AWOL. For the first time, I walked to a taxi unencumbered, a spring in my step and joy in my heart. I slept blissfully that night, dreaming of minimalist packing lists. The bag found me the next day, delivered to my door, heavy as ever.
What did I learn? Take carry-on only. Capsule wardrobe. No cubes. But let’s be honest: I’ve made this promise before.