to travel as a minimalist

Whatever it is, you probably won't need it.

The first time I traveled with my parents was to Florida in 1967 or 68; I was four or five. I have no idea what or how they packed for me, but what I do remember is this: my mother took seven suitcases.

For ten days.

I recall standing in my parents’ bedroom and hearing my father say to her Really? Seven suitcases? And my mother answering Yes, I need them. Of the seven, four were soft-sided and the sort of grubby beige that immediately looked filthy; the rest were hard-sided, blue Samsonite plastic that weighed a ton, and my father’s hard-sided tweed suitcase from when he was a bachelor living in Canada in the 1950s. The last thing I remember is my father having to sit on the hard-sided ones to close them.

Ten days.

What did we do for ten days that required so many clothes? Nothing. I spent most of my days in an over-chlorinated pool, wearing a Flipper tee shirt over my bathing suit. My mother spent most of her time on a chaise, reading a magazine. My father slept a lot. At night, they left me with a hotel babysitter (we were staying at The Marco Polo in Fort Lauderdale, which is still there) and went to see shows ranging from Dean Martin to Nancy Sinatra. We went out for a few meals to places like Wolfies. And then we went home to my grandmother and the dog.

Which is to say that my packing sensibility is somewhat tainted by my mother’s insistence on carrying her entire wardrobe along with her wherever she went (you should have seen what she packed a few years later for a three-week trip to California). My goal is to pack as lightly as possible; I invariably end up having to buy another bag for acquisitions, which, in the case of our recent journey to England and Scotland, was comprised mostly of books. I am easily seduced by capsule packing stories, like the ones you find on the highly addictive YOLO Journal. But again, this is pure seduction: I want to be that woman who packs a few tee shirts, a blazer, a pair of jeans, and a pair of black pants, and that’s it. I’d like to pack like Nigel Slater, who, if I remember correctly, says he takes three pairs of undergarments with him when he travels for an extended trip to Japan: one to wear, one to wash, and one on deck. This makes sense to me, but not enough sense that I didn’t pack fourteen pair of my favorite underwear, which only necessitated my wringing seven of them out in a hotel sink and Susan blow-drying them the next morning with an old dusty Conair because they were still damp the night before we left for Bristol, where we stayed with old friends. (Who presumably have a washing machine that we could have used.)

Seriously: best laid plans. Susan managed to pack for three weeks in a small carry-on (which she checked) and still did not wear everything she brought. I went up one notch to a 24” rollerboy, filled it, and wore exactly six things, on repeat.

Packing for vacation is a cultural/psychological thing that feels far more connected to personal storytelling than we actually realize it is.

At the end of the month, I’ll be sixty-two, and for God’s sake, I should know how to pack by now. I should know that when I’m traveling to a place like London or Edinburgh and I, heaven forbid, discover that I don’t have PIECE X and I desperately need it for whatever reason, I can make a quick run to Marks & Spencer. But I erred on the side of caution, and took far more with me than I needed, including two pairs of sneakers (these and these), my ancient Blundstones, for tromping around gardens; and a pair of black leather flats for the one business meeting we had. Life would have been easier if I wore dresses — a black tee-shirt dress would have been a life-and-space saver — but I don’t and haven’t probably since Obama was in office. Outerwear: I took my threadbare, forty-year-old Barbour because it’s something of a security blanket, and the weather in the UK is nothing if not unpredictable. I wore it every day, but by the time we left to come home, the entire island was poised to have a blistering heat wave, and wearing it would have been like wearing a down coat in July.

We got home yesterday and unpacked today, and the amount of clothes I didn’t wear is breathtaking. What remained in my suitcase for three weeks: a pair of cotton blue balloon pants that I bought in Berkeley years ago, have in four colors, and love; two short-sleeved linen button-down tops (one blue striped, one white); a black tee shirt that clings just a little bit too closely to The Girls for my preference (having lost a considerable amount of weight in the last year, The Girls remain mostly unaffected); a pair of loose black running pants that I promised myself I’d wear on the plane; two pair of jeans (I brought three; very bad idea, because jeans weigh a ton). I have promised myself that the next time we travel, I’m not going above a carry-on size suitcase (like this, or this). My clothes will likely be black, white, beige, and (if I’m feeling a little wild) French blue. My Blundstones will stay home unless I’m digging in a garden or riding a horse, the latter of which is unlikely because I haven’t ridden since I was in college. I’m even willing to attempt Nigel’s packing style. I did use those big plastic resealable compression bags and I’ll never do it again because every time I had to find something, I couldn’t, and it felt like I was rummaging around in a zip-lock meant for brining a twenty-pound Christmas turkey.

Simple dressing in Edinburgh, and Susan, looking far too cool for the likes of me, in Cambridge.

I realize, after all this time, that extreme over-packing can be an indicator of vast insecurity: it certainly was in my mother’s case. It translates into What If? What If I am suddenly invited to the Palace and I only have sneakers with me? What If my mother suddenly had to attend a wedding while she was on vacation in Florida? What If she and my father went to a fancy restaurant where she was expected to dress up? What If she needed to wear heels? What If a film producer suddenly spotted her and made her the It Girl of 1967? None of these things happened: I was not invited to the Palace, and my mother did not have to attend a wedding while on vacation, nor was she tapped to be the It Girl of 1967. That was Twiggy.

What I wore on my vacation:

• A heavy-weight black cotton tee shirt with enough shape to make it dressy if it needed to be, which it didn’t (not even at Quo Vadis or St. John);

• A white and blue-striped Breton;

• This pair of Pilcro balloon jeans;

• A pair of taupe cotton trousers;

• Several white tee shirts (more than one because I’m a total slob as my wife will tell you, and if something can be dripped on a white shirt, I’ll happily oblige);

• An oversized white button-down shirt that is still remarkably pristine (see above);

• A long-sleeved, lightweight black cotton tee shirt;

• A black blazer and slim black pants for my business meeting, which is always what I wear at a business meeting (the pants are the most comfortable things I own, and I wore them on the flight home);

• My French work jacket, which I wear constantly, and which is oversized enough to wear over a thin sweater, but not big enough that it looks like I’m wearing my grandfather’s overcoat;

• A thin cashmere sweater;

• My sneakers;

• My Blundstones (twice, and only in gardens)

I am incredibly curious about how people pack, and why, because it seems to be directly linked to their general worldview and sensibility, so, of course, I want to know: What do you pack when you go on vacation? I realize that this post is a little bit out of the ordinary, but … maybe not. Packing for vacation is a cultural/psychological thing that feels far more connected to personal storytelling than we actually think it is. The seven suitcases that my mother dragged to Florida on my childhood trip were less indicative of her sartorial sensibility (which, until recently, was remarkable) than her perceived place in the world. The way we dress when we travel can be anchoring, or not; it can identify us, or not; it can be a costume, or not.

I’m asking my subscribers: How do you pack? Do you have any tried-and-true methods? I’d love to hear them because I honestly believe that the way we travel is the way we think about life on the whole.