Pack up your troubles
Packing is an art, not a science and packing books is avant garde art. Not how to pack them (they are rectangular, this is not Tetris) but what to pack. To be sure, 97% of the world population of Jackie Collins books smells faintly of suntan lotion, but simply buying the holiday bonkbuster ignores the opportunities for impressing fellow travellers and intimidating the locals that the simple use of the right vintage of Penguin, battered to perfection, affords. Of course, I like to prop up the bar with my copy of ‘Chalet School Sluts’ (hardback, 1927, hand tinted illustrations by the author)which guarantees you uninterrupted boozing and, to be fair, on one occasion, the unwanted sexual advances of a confused Elinor Brent-Dyer enthusiast.
Try doing that with a Kindle.
Yes, Packing is an art. Even more so now that so many laws have been passed that seem intended to prevent the traveller from taking with him or her the very essentials that make a journey in the company of strangers bearable, such as a nosebag of recreational phamacuticals and a paid companion (prior to my latest trip, I thought ‘sex trafficking’ was a sort of upmarket dogging). I presume next on the list of things to be banned from taking on a bus will be the racier kind of literature. Truly, first they came for our aerosols and I didn’t speak up because I have a dread of ‘Lynx’. Then came for our tubes of moisturiser and I did not speak up because I prefer to moisturise from the inside out using miniatures of gin. But if they try and take my copy of ‘Chalet School Sluts’ then they will be faced with a display of rage that will make current events in the Middle East look like a toddler’s tantrum.
My own luggage of choice would be the Huxley and Feathertone portable Gentleman’s travelling wardrobe. Mahogany, with brass fixings, rhino-hide covering, ceramic fixtures and fittings, optional library and cocktail cabinet (never an either/or option) and of course the bespoke ‘Universal Translator’ – an enamelled tin megaphone through which to bellow loudly in English until the person or crowd you are addressing, who has no English, understand your demands for a decent toilet and enormous, ice-cool, gin based drink (not necessarily in that order) NOW! through sheer force of personality and decibels. It weighs as much as a Shetland pony unpacked but, believe me, there’s noting quite like walking into the lobby of a hotel followed by four sweating, straining bearers or, optionally, one porter and a fork-lift truck, to make an impression. All conversation in the bar of the Catford Travelodge for instance, is guaranteed to cease on arrival.
The only thing that rivals it for capacity are those enormous backpacks that tourists wear to annoy tube users. Not only are they huge (if they don’t contain a tent you can use them as one), but the latest fashion is to have so many accessories dangling from them it looks as though somebody is playing backpacker buckeroo.
Of course just as important as your luggage are the luggage labels that adorn it. Looking at those marvellous ‘travel to the Costa Brava by small gauge steam railroad’ posters of yore, showing healthy chaps with pipes and flappers in gauzy frocks taking in some Mediterranean scene, gripping a huge tumbler of gin even though the clock tower in the town clearly shows it’s just after eight in the morning (different rules apply when the British travel, that’s why they love to do it), one notices that the luggage is covered by a collage of square, rectangular or, if one has been East of the Bosporus, dodecahedron shaped luggage labels, showing far flung and exotic destinations. That’s why folk today feel the need to adorn their cars and caravans with stickers proudly proclaiming that they have been to Leicester, or even Gwent.
Today, ‘London to Shanghi by train, airship and camel train via Venice and Omar’s Opium Outlet’ has been replaced by a sticky label with a bar-code. But of course there is noting to prevent one from attaching ones own luggage labels to your suitcase to give it a jaunty, nostalgic appearance. My own battered valise (neither a Scottish delicacy nor a social disease) features a collection of stickers announcing to fellow passengers that I have visited Narnia, Mordor, Brobdingnag and, with the Miskatonic University expedition led by William Dyer, Antartica. There’s also a discoloured patch where my ‘Neverland’ sticker used to be, but I steamed that off after I started getting some very strange looks from those more familiar with the life and times of M Jackson than the works of J M Barrie.
Finally, whenever I travel, I make sure that I take along my preconceptions about the place and especially the people I am going to visit. While many might consider it dinner party, or at least pot noodle, racism to pitch up at a place with manner set to Kate Humble style levels of condescension when dealing with the locals, it means that one is either surprised and delighted that people are so different from expected, or, even better, all your bigoted ideas about them were correct.
Try doing that with a Kindle.
Yes, Packing is an art. Even more so now that so many laws have been passed that seem intended to prevent the traveller from taking with him or her the very essentials that make a journey in the company of strangers bearable, such as a nosebag of recreational phamacuticals and a paid companion (prior to my latest trip, I thought ‘sex trafficking’ was a sort of upmarket dogging). I presume next on the list of things to be banned from taking on a bus will be the racier kind of literature. Truly, first they came for our aerosols and I didn’t speak up because I have a dread of ‘Lynx’. Then came for our tubes of moisturiser and I did not speak up because I prefer to moisturise from the inside out using miniatures of gin. But if they try and take my copy of ‘Chalet School Sluts’ then they will be faced with a display of rage that will make current events in the Middle East look like a toddler’s tantrum.
My own luggage of choice would be the Huxley and Feathertone portable Gentleman’s travelling wardrobe. Mahogany, with brass fixings, rhino-hide covering, ceramic fixtures and fittings, optional library and cocktail cabinet (never an either/or option) and of course the bespoke ‘Universal Translator’ – an enamelled tin megaphone through which to bellow loudly in English until the person or crowd you are addressing, who has no English, understand your demands for a decent toilet and enormous, ice-cool, gin based drink (not necessarily in that order) NOW! through sheer force of personality and decibels. It weighs as much as a Shetland pony unpacked but, believe me, there’s noting quite like walking into the lobby of a hotel followed by four sweating, straining bearers or, optionally, one porter and a fork-lift truck, to make an impression. All conversation in the bar of the Catford Travelodge for instance, is guaranteed to cease on arrival.
The only thing that rivals it for capacity are those enormous backpacks that tourists wear to annoy tube users. Not only are they huge (if they don’t contain a tent you can use them as one), but the latest fashion is to have so many accessories dangling from them it looks as though somebody is playing backpacker buckeroo.
Of course just as important as your luggage are the luggage labels that adorn it. Looking at those marvellous ‘travel to the Costa Brava by small gauge steam railroad’ posters of yore, showing healthy chaps with pipes and flappers in gauzy frocks taking in some Mediterranean scene, gripping a huge tumbler of gin even though the clock tower in the town clearly shows it’s just after eight in the morning (different rules apply when the British travel, that’s why they love to do it), one notices that the luggage is covered by a collage of square, rectangular or, if one has been East of the Bosporus, dodecahedron shaped luggage labels, showing far flung and exotic destinations. That’s why folk today feel the need to adorn their cars and caravans with stickers proudly proclaiming that they have been to Leicester, or even Gwent.
Today, ‘London to Shanghi by train, airship and camel train via Venice and Omar’s Opium Outlet’ has been replaced by a sticky label with a bar-code. But of course there is noting to prevent one from attaching ones own luggage labels to your suitcase to give it a jaunty, nostalgic appearance. My own battered valise (neither a Scottish delicacy nor a social disease) features a collection of stickers announcing to fellow passengers that I have visited Narnia, Mordor, Brobdingnag and, with the Miskatonic University expedition led by William Dyer, Antartica. There’s also a discoloured patch where my ‘Neverland’ sticker used to be, but I steamed that off after I started getting some very strange looks from those more familiar with the life and times of M Jackson than the works of J M Barrie.
Finally, whenever I travel, I make sure that I take along my preconceptions about the place and especially the people I am going to visit. While many might consider it dinner party, or at least pot noodle, racism to pitch up at a place with manner set to Kate Humble style levels of condescension when dealing with the locals, it means that one is either surprised and delighted that people are so different from expected, or, even better, all your bigoted ideas about them were correct.
Labels: Air travel, Books, CiF, Comment is free, Lucy mangan
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