OVER-PACKING ON OVERNIGHT TRIPS

When traveling on a business trip, I know it’s much better to pack light. This way you don’t have to deal with checked luggage at the airport, which now costs an extra $15 to $25 per suitcase, and inevitably leads to one of two frustrating situations: waiting and waiting at the airport Baggage Claim carousel for your luggage finally to appear on the conveyor belt; or the much more maddening scenario when all the bags from the plane finally appear on the conveyor belt but yours is not among them. While standing in the Detroit airport with a puzzled look on your face, you slowly begin to realize your precious suitcases are at that very moment inside the cargo hold of a different airplane, winging their way to, say, Denver. Ugh!

Also, packing light means you won’t have to participate in the Businessman Triathalon, a strenuous competition that consists of dragging hundreds of pounds of luggage over three different obstacle courses: through airports, into taxicabs, and onto hotel elevators. The businessman who reaches his hotel room first without being drenched in sweat wins a prize. (Often the prize is the honor of not experiencing a heart attack while in a strange city where you know nothing about the local medical facilities. So there’s no actual trophy, but the no-heart attack prize is nonetheless quite a cherished award.)

I used to pack very light when I traveled. But about ten years ago I had to drive to Boston for a sales meeting. It was a simple trip: drive up and have dinner with the boss, spend one night in a hotel, and the next day go to some meetings then drive home. I packed a change of underwear, socks, and a clean shirt in a small gym bag. Since I wasn’t scheduled to do anything strenuous, I figured I would wear the same pair of slacks both days. This way I wouldn’t have to bring a real suitcase.

Well, just before I reached Boston, my car’s radiator overheated. I pulled over, got out and looked under the hood. (By the way, when I look under the hood of a car, I understand what I’m looking at in about the same way a hamster understands what it’s looking at while gazing at the inner workings of a computer.) Although completely baffled, I dutifully leaned forward toward the engine, pointed at various mechanical items, nodded knowingly, and said, “Ah ha, I see.”

After a few minutes of this self-delusional charade, I called Triple-A for help. The radiator was repaired (boy, those garage mechanics treat stranded, out-of-state motorists gently, don’t they?), and then I checked into my hotel to get ready for dinner. That’s when I noticed my slacks were streaked with grease and grime from leaning against the front of the car. I had a change of clean underwear with me, but no extra slacks. I was pretty sure the restaurant would be less than cordial toward pants-less patrons. So I went to dinner with my boss looking like a slob.

Ever since that embarrassing trip, I over-pack whenever I travel. If I’m going away for two days, I bring enough clothes for three. (Weeks, that is.)

Lugging all those suitcases, I have yet to be victorious in the Businessman Triathalon competition, and I suspect it’s only a matter of time before I’m hauled away to the cardiac ward of an unfamiliar hospital. But at least I’ll be able to choose from a dozen different outfits to wear for my ride in the ambulance.