Heavy Suitcase

Packing for Europe and Thinking About Patrick’s Next Wife

I’m sitting at the airport waiting on the first leg of my flight to Brussels. By the time you read this, hopefully I will have successfully crossed the ocean, navigated customs, found my hotel, and toured three beautiful Belgian cities.

This is my first international trip.

Today is Wednesday, but because of the time change, I’ll arrive Thursday morning. I’ll spend a couple of days on my own before meeting Emaline at the airport on Saturday. From there, we’ll head off for a week exploring London and Edinburgh before she returns home to begin her first big-girl job, an internship with an engineering firm, on June 1.

She has already been there for two weeks studying abroad through the University of Arkansas at the University of Ghent.

For Friday, I’ve booked a tour to Ghent and Bruges. The brochures describe them as fairytale cities, but honestly, the whole experience feels a bit storybook-like to me.

I haven’t given much thought to traveling through Europe before now, but with Emaline already there and eager to see more, I decided this was the time.

Sunday was supposed to be my packing and cleaning day. There were so many things on my to-do list. Laundry piles. Floors looking a little barn-like from tracking back and forth between the front yard and backyard. Tomato plants still needing homes. Trip details to confirm. Outfits to put together.

But instead, I ended up deep cleaning my closet.

Rearranging pants. Putting shirts in color order. Reorganizing my pajama drawer. Refolding stacks of clothes that were already folded.

At one point, I tried to talk some sense into myself. Why are you doing this? You have so many things that actually need to get done right now.

I told myself it was practical, that packing would be much easier with my closet organized. But I knew the real driver was the fact that every time I fly, there is a tiny part of me that thinks I might die, and an eight-hour flight over the ocean really had those thoughts dialed up.

I should have been much more concerned with figuring out my ground transportation after I landed, but instead I was reorganizing my underwear drawer and wondering what Patrick’s next wife would think of this mess.

When I asked him, “Patrick, if I die on this flight, would you remarry?”

He said, barely paying attention to me, “You’re not going to die.”

“Would you live here with her in our house?”

“Martha, stop.”

“Would you let her plant other vegetables in my tomato garden?”

“You’re not dying.”

“Would you let her wear my overalls?”

That is when he finally looked directly at me and said, “No. Those would be way too big for her.”

I wouldn’t blame him if he were ready for a new wife, given the long list of things I’ve been suggesting he do while I’m gone. You’d think I was boarding the Mayflower back to the motherland instead of leaving for ten days.

Power wash the porch.
Get the boat ready for summer.
Repair the bathroom wall.
Hang a screen door.

I guess it’s the distance that somehow makes the time feel longer.

Truthfully, Patrick’s only real job is to keep my tomato plants and flowers watered.

When I finally got around to packing, it didn’t go especially well. I wanted to follow the guidance of one of those Pinterest boards that claims four pieces of clothing can somehow become forty outfits, but I just couldn’t do it.

I packed and unpacked several times trying to edit things down, but I was unsuccessful. I did technically manage to fit everything into a carry-on, but it was heavy enough that I finally decided to go ahead and check it rather than drag it through airports and lift it into overhead bins.

Leslie says there are two types of people: those who pack light and those who wish they had. For this trip, I’m sadly in the second category.

I did lighten my closet on Sunday, though. I finally put my pre-pregnancy jeans in the donate pile. It was time. First, they don’t fit correctly anymore. Second, they aren’t cute. Why have I been hanging on to them for twenty-four years?

I guess to remind me of Patrick’s younger and thinner wife.

He liked her, but honestly, I think he would say he prefers the current version of me in overalls. The only thing he wants smaller these days is the honey-do list.

Last night, while finally getting down to some of the finer details of the trip, I discovered the airline had somehow assigned me a middle seat in the center section. What a disaster that would have been.

Thankfully, I was able to switch.

I always want the window. I like seeing outside and having a wall to lean against. I don’t want people climbing over me to use the restroom. I never get up on flights. Like, ever.

I have never once used an airplane bathroom because a strong bladder is one of my superpowers.

Leslie is deeply concerned that I will refuse to use the restroom on an eight-hour flight, so she sent me with UTI antibiotics.

What a friend.

As much as I look forward to seeing old cities and castles and all the fairytale places ahead, what I really look forward to is experiencing them with Emaline.

I do hope I’m a good traveling buddy for her. I plan to be on my best behavior, and I will be tapping my card along the way, which should go a long way.

She is an adult now. She didn’t need me to pack her suitcase.

She did ask me to bring her a sweater, though.

I was happy to do it and have decided the sweater can take the blame for the heavy suitcase.

Bon Voyage,
Martha

Travel
By Edna St. Vincent Millay

The railroad track is miles away,
And the day is loud with voices speaking,
Yet there isn’t a train goes by all day
But I hear its whistle shrieking.

All night there isn’t a train goes by,
Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming,
But I see its cinders red on the sky,
And hear its engine steaming.

My heart is warm with the friends I make,
And better friends I’ll not be knowing;
Yet there isn’t a train I wouldn’t take,
No matter where it’s going.