They say that packing is a sobering experience; the task of fitting the contents of one's life into a singular sack, that is. I am told that planning to bring 10-14 days worth of clothing will be enough, basta. And being a Taurus and ergo loving practicality and structure, I have made an updated packing list and further begun to arrange the listed items on the guest-room bed. The departure date is drawing closer and closer, I think 3 days now. Lufthansa allows me one free checked bag weighing in under 50 pounds, which I take to be a challenge that ultimately boils down to this fundamental traveler's question: Am I really worth less than 50 pounds?
4 dress shirts (all from J.Crew), 3 pairs of shorts, 2 pairs of jeans, 8 tee shirts, 2 long sleeved shirts, 2 pairs of shoes, assorted medicines and toiletries--are they really going to weigh more than 50 pounds? Any given dress shirt doesn't even weigh 1 pound. In fact my box of drawing supplies weighs more than my 3 pairs of shorts and 4 dress shirts combined. How could these things that I have, the clothing I wear, ever amount to a total that surpasses 50 pounds? When I eventually find my duffle bag, I'll know for sure. At the moment I remain skeptical and, perhaps, a little naive.
At this point I'm "over" caring so much, I'm "over" feeling anxious, I'm "over" trying to prepare. No, at this point I want to go. I'm ready for that airport smell, the excitement of buying a $7 sandwich even though it's worth less, the waiting, the flight crew and pilots walking around the terminals just like everybody else. I'm ready for that brain-twisting idea that in a handful of hours I will be in a completely different place.
On a different note, I've abandoned Dianne Hales' book and instead dusted off an old copy of Frances Mayes' "Under The Tuscan Sun, A Home in Italy," that I never got around to reading. Mi sono innamorato with the film adaptation and the book, so far, is proving the same. This witchery and spellbinding power of just hearing the word, "Tuscany," makes me crave a glass of red wine, to sit at an old cast-iron patio table, feel the burnt sienna and umber waves of sunlight radiating over my skin. Yes, that is the Tuscany that seduces me. I doubt that it is the Tuscany that will greet me when I land in Florence on some January morning. I pray there isn't any snow. And I suppose this is another thing to pack, my expectations. Expectations within reason, dreams and realism, the duality of the two that would fight, but in my head they are fast friends. How much does the sepia stained Tuscany of my dreams weigh? How much does my realism weigh? (I assume realism weighs more than dreamism--that feels right).
So, to conclude: Bring it on, Lufthansa!
