Two Years Earlier

They simply saved going around and around on an countless loop, the same purple knapsack, inexperienced duffel bag, and bungee-corded brown field circling the room like refugees caught on a Ferris wheel. My husband Karl's suitcase appeared instantly, loaded with Etro striped shirts,
Ferragamo loafers and his prized Dries Van Noten sports coat. However after two hours of waiting, frantically leaping from one baggage carousel to another as a smattering of arriving flights touched down, it became painfully clear that I would be spending the next ten days in
Italy stuck with the clothes I had on my again: a BO-infused green T-shirt with a pink heart silk- screened throughout the entrance, a pair of denims that were decorated with various in-flight meal mishaps and highlighter-yellow slipper-sneakers. Not even my carry-on bag could save me -- all it contained, apart from my wallet and passport, was a handful of Dramamine, a horseshoe- formed neck pillow and a dogeared copy of Thomas Mann's appropriately titled "Dying in Venice. "
It wasn't like this the last time Karl and that i were in Italy. Two years earlier, I had an entourage of luggage after we made our approach from Rome to the Amalfi coast to attend the wedding of Karl's good mates, Eric and Shana. Again then, my a number of bags had been jammed with all the pieces from the filmy peignoir set I had planned to tug out on our first night time in Rome to the total-length judge's robe I had volunteered to transport to Positano, a favor to the Officiant (who later admitted he wanted the extra house in his own suitcase for a postwedding shopping spree in Milan). As a substitute of asking myself, 'Do I really want all those sneakers?' I advised myself as I demolished my apartment in a state of packing frenzy, 'You may be ready for anything' -- from a freak snowstorm to the sweltering heat that this new love held for me.
Of course, all this overzealous preparedness was probably a manner of managing my anxiety, a perception that so long as I packed that pair of silk cargo pants, these fourteen tubes of lipstick, and, I'm embarrassed to admit now, a spare roll of toilet paper, I'd one way or the other manage
to avoid one other kind of journey emergency, one the place my new boyfriend decided he didn't actually care for my firm after spending five consecutive days together with his plus-one wedding date. Karl and i had been seeing one another for only a few months, and up until our Italian
getaway, we had spent solely a handful of weekends collectively, lolling around in bed or on one in all our respective couches watching reruns of "Household Guy." This trip required putting on precise clothes and remaining upright for an prolonged time period, negotiating territory beyond our regular haunts in D. C., and sharing a bathroom with a handheld showerhead and a door that did not lock or do a lot to block out sure, er, noises.