The last two times I was in New York City I packed pretty light. My first trip was two days, one night, and I took only a backpack. My second trip was six days, five nights, and even at that, for a girl who takes a fully loaded truck to the store (just kidding…kindof), I had only a carry-on sized suitcase and my purse. And I bought a laptop bag there (I didn’t own one). I mailed home a big bag of clothes and a box of books I bought. (I know, why’d I go to NY to buy books when Barnes and Noble ships them to me free?)
So on this four day, three night trip, I decided to give up on the two hours a day I spent repacking my tiny suitcase and brought the mother. It’s the biggest suitcase I own, but to its credit, not the biggest one I saw at the airport. I even decided to pamper myself and bring a blanket and towels (the hostel tries). From the moment I left my house at 2:45 CST, I regretted it.
Even after dragging the damn thing through CWA, MSP, and LGA, on the M60 to Harlem-125th, up two flights of stairs to the train platform, on the Metro-North Railroad to my meeting, on the train back to Marble Hill, up two flights of stairs to the subway platform, on the 1 train (subway) to 103rd street, and up seven flights of stairs to my hotel room, nothing was as bad as the realization that checkout is at 11 AM on Saturday and my flight doesn’t leave LGA until 6 PM. While, at best, that leaves only four hours for me to dink around Manhattan before getting on the bus back to LGA, four hours of lugging around a 49.5 lb suitcase and a rolling backpack which my boyfriend lovingly lent me because, “it’s on wheels!” isn’t yet sounding like fun.
My problem isn’t that I bring stuff I don’t need. I don’t pack a hair dryer. I don’t bring fourteen pairs of shoes. I don’t bring gadgets that I absolutely cannot live without, because I know where the drugstore is if I forget conditioner. I don’t pack food. I usually ship gifts in advance. My problem is I never seem to have the right version of whatever I do bring. Or enough.
I run out of clean socks. I run out of appropriate pants to wear after I spill ice cream on my khakis. I fail to bring enough dress shirts to get me through surprise dinners. I freeze in the airplane or use last nights jeans as a pillow. I know, what’s wrong with that? Hey. This is supposed to be fun. If I wanted to rough it, I’d stay home and go camping.
I’m finally settled in at the hotel and on my way out to play for the evening. I’ve decided Sunday will have to be my walking tour day, or a sitting at Starbucks and working day, at least after 11. No biggie. Next time I’ll know better. Maybe.
