I consider myself a fairly evolved airport animal. In my mind, it’s an evolutionary advantage to not have to check in baggage. I hate carrying much baggage to begin with – a habit from my younger days when I went hiking, and had to carry stuff for days, come rain or sunshine. If it wasn’t not necessary, it wouldn’t go into the bag.
The checkin rule is kind of snobbish, growing out of a desire to spend as little time at airports as possible. It’s also childish because I now carry a backpack no matter where I have to go, or for how many days. A week in Paris, a week in India, three days in Iceland and a week in Barcelona. Ok, at this point, I’m showing off although I make but an innocent point.
The joy of traveling though is usually with someone else. If your husband is smarter than you, he’ll check in his baggage, and won’t break his back carrying an 8 kg backpack for 2 hours in crawling immigration lines. You can also then join in the fun and adventure of finding the baggage carousel, and then swipe left, bag after bag. Great game, because the bag is never certain to arrive.
There’s so much to say about losing baggage. If only I could lose the kind of baggage that I actually wanted to. Even when I know I’m carrying it around, I sometimes don’t let go. It sticks on to me even if it’s not a necessary part of me. I’d be alright if I go without it for some distance, or even forever. For instance, the world won’t end if I don’t think about work for a week, or if leave my fears behind. I’ll be ok, I try to tell myself, if I shed some of the instincts that I’ve picked up along the way. The best part about really traveling light is the stuff you can pick up while you’re on the road, like new memories and perspectives. But there must be space for them.