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110 pages, ebook
Published March 1, 2022
Packing is about arranging objects in relationship to one another, fitting them together like a puzzle.
But when I see my fellow passengers again in baggage claim, I feel almost as if I know them, as if we have been though something together, and I almost wish I could talk to them. And we have been through something: an utterly banal experience that means nothing in particular and will be forgotten almost immediately, perhaps as soon as we walk through the sliding glass doors, out into the heat or the cold.
This is the baggage carousel dance. Trying to reclaim our property. Trying to identify it.
But in their true form, luggage labels narrated where you had been and what you had seen. They were proof of personal experience. And, as souvenirs that quite literally affixed themselves to your suitcase, they were indelible. They might become worn down over time, or you might pick at the edges of one in a moment of boredom, but once you stuck them to your suitcase, they were there to stay, unlike memories. Luggage labels mark the unrecoverability of a trip once it is concluded.
These are the burdens of human relationships the burdens of attachments and memories.
In her poem “The Luggage,” Constance Urdang writes: “Travel is a vanishing act / Only to those who are left behind. / What the traveler knows / Is that he accompanies himself, / Unwieldy baggage that can’t be checked, / Stolen, or lost, or mistaken.” We accompany ourselves; we are inextricably joined to ourselves. But we are also “unwieldy,” a burden that can’t be shed or cast aside. The traveler is a split self—he accompanies himself—but these two selves are joined to one another. He is himself and a kind of suitcase that he brings with him.
When you travel, you are choosing to leave your home behind. And your luggage, your suitcase more often than not, is the distillation of the domestic, abroad: your home, reduced.
This story is about labor: the labor of carrying things that have both a real and a sentimental weight.
Sometimes it is difficult to distinguish between a traveler and his or her luggage. We become our things.
And the boring black suitcases cause confusion. Excuse me, but I think that one is mine. No, I’m pretty sure this one is mine—let me check the tag. Oh, I’m so sorry—it looks just like mine. This is the baggage carousel dance. Trying to reclaim our property. Trying to identify it. Some people monogram their luggage. This is practical—a monogram helps you to pick out you suitcase— but it is also tied to identity in deeper ways. A monogram is the textual distillation of your identity and a declaration of ownership. This is mine. It becomes another brand: your brand alongside the brand of the suitcase; a mark the self, endlessly reproducible and immediately recognizable.
Commercial airlines now estimate 190 pounds per passenger, including his or her carry-ons, and 30 pounds per checked bag. Four hundred passengers and their luggage, or approximately 75,000 pounds, makes up only 10 percent of the total weight of a fully loaded 747. (Fuel often accounts for a third or more of a plane’s total bulk.) But you can still travel on Cunard’s Queen Mary with unlimited luggage.
Disasters leave luggage behind. Genocide leaves luggage behind. In David Foster Wallace’s 1995 essay for Harper’s about the absurdities of luxury cruises “A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again,” the invisible handling of baggage brings to mind the Holocaust: “A second Celebrity crowdcontrol lady has a megaphone and repeats over and over not to worry about our luggage, that it will follow us later, which I am apparently alone in finding chilling in its unwitting echo of the Auschwitz-embarkation scene in Schindler’s List.”