This weekend I visited NYC to take in Hamilton, listen to some Jazz at the Blue Note, eat some good food, and generally enjoy Manhattan in the not so springy springtime. My suitcase did not join me for the trip. Somewhere between the vestibule and the trunk it went its own way – ending our association.
I said it was fine, that its just a material thing, not my good health, or the loss of someone you love, or something truly tragic like living in the middle of the country and not being able to smell the salt in the air, and take a dip in the ocean, where truly all your ailments seem to vanish away. Nothing that catastrophic, and still it’s left me a little melancholy.
My Kate Spade for Steamline Carry-on had been a lot of places with me. I bought it just after I sold my first home – that was three homes ago, and at least a half dozen rentals. It had been to Paris three times, to the South of France, to Venice, Croatia, Bosnia, Switzerland, and Costa Rica. It had been to Florida, Maryland, Virginia, Tennessee, Texas, New York, DC, Illinois, Maine, Rhode Island, New Hampshire, Vermont and probably a few states in between.
It was my constant Cape Cod companion, and adored Nantucket though it pretended to have no favorite.
Perhaps it grew tired of never be fully unpacked – not being allowed to breath. Maybe it had some bad jeu-jeu like this rash that won’t seem to leave me alone. Maybe I should consider it a ritualistic cleansing? Do you suppose the same could be true of my adorable little Chanel booties – the ones that could carry me at a fast pace trot through the city with nary a complaint from me or the boot. And what of my leather pants, and my beloved faux fir Gucci knock off slippers from Target? What about them?
That’s enough now – it’s enough.
I had a beautiful weekend – even if I did have to wear the same clothes the whole time. Sometimes you’ve just got to call a Spade a Spade – I’ll carry on….wink, wink. See, I still have my sense of humor. I never pack it, it should always be readily available.