Singing the Blues

Suitcase in hand, you head to the station. Now normally a person doesn’t carry a suitcase, not any more. Today all the suitcases have wheels and a handle you click on to make it pop up. You are carrying yours, because it’d make a lot of noise rattling along behind you, jouncing up and down on gravel or loose dirt, getting caught in a crack. Mostly what bothers you is the jouncing it might do, because suitcases are meant to be lugged, dragged, sworn at. Some even get set at a bad angle and plop! they fall over, then you have to set them up again and keep hurrying.

Your suitcase is different. Your suitcase is smart, like the phones everybody has nowadays. The reason your suitcase is special is that it really understands you, plus you treat it right. That means you don’t pack it. That’s right, you don’t pack it. No, that doesn’t mean somebody does the packing for you. It means you put nothing in it, especially if you’re going on one of those long overseas trips you like to take so much.

You look down at your suitcase, hoping it is doing well. You are glad you bought this one, because the previous one was getting a little worn around the gills with all the trips it had gone on. You hadn’t discovered the secret of traveling light - very light - until it was nearing the end of its days. Now it is retired to the basement, finally pardoned from having to travel with you, getting banged around in airplane holds, sloshing through puddles on the tarmac. It is retired, but since it is not traveling, you have filled it so it will still feel it is earning its keep. 

Now your old suitcase houses things you hope to use someday but haven’t quite figured out how. Memories, made from things, things you can pick up and hold, are a real bitch, and you can’t mess them up. You only get one shot at cutting up that old garment for a quilt, or rebinding old pages from old books into an altered art journal, or putting those ugly ticket stubs into a scrapbook. (You’ll probably forego the scrapbooking. That’s something you stopped doing in high school.)

You brush the thoughts of your former suitcase out of your mind, like the cobwebs that might be covering it now (there are always busy spiders in the basement and you never kill them because you know they do good work on the other insects that end up down there). Your new suitcase is still bright sand blue, a hard shell that hopefully will never get dented so it looks like the front fender of a Toyota. You even put a name tag on it and you have a key to the lock that you never use, but just in case…

At this point you might be feeling a little sheepish about the suitcase and your feelings for it. What is it except an empty space around which a bright blue, man-made shell is wrapped? You are worried that it might not understand its purpose, its role in your life. Perhaps you should make sure it is all right.

You speak softly, coaxing Blue Boy to listen, knowing he will not ignore you for long. 

Dear Blue Boy:

Yes, I know we usually write to people we leave behind when we travel. We send postcards or e mails, sometimes we contact them in other ways. It’s a bit harder and more expensive if we’re traveling overseas, but sometimes we call them. You and I do things differently. We talk. You are very patient - I can see it already from the gleam in your … - well, let’s just say I can tell. You wait, with an open mind and an open top, ready.

You know why you need to travel light. It’s not because I love the song by Leonard Cohen - which I do, and will gladly hum it for you if you’d like - but because you are so much more useful and helpful when you bring nothing on a trip. Let’s think about it for a minute.

You, the suitcase, are hauled out and readied for travel. You are stuffed full of underwear (some of it new, a lot not), changes of clothing (which is odd, because you don’t wear clothing and when I travel, I usually wear the same two things over and over), and some utensils for maintaining a decent appearance (a comb, toothbrush, soap, etc.). Once in a while, you get a book thrown at - I mean, in - you. You don’t like the responsibility of carrying a laptop or iPad, which could rattle around and maybe break, and you know that would make me sad.

You do not get that sort of abuse from me, fortunately. You travel completely empty, unless there’s a stray Q-tip stuck in your side pocket, or a slip of paper with an address on it. You have not expected me to spend precious time and money buying ‘essential’ items for travel, since the only really essential things are the body and the mind that purchase a plane ticket and board.

You! Brilliant you! No charge for excess baggage, no dogs sniffing around the terminal (bus, train, or airport) trying to discover which passengers are unable to travel without their illegal or semi-illegal substances. You fly off the bus that drops you out by the right airline in Logan Airport in Boston, which is the one you know best. You hop onto the belt by the ticket counter and dance into the depths of the cargo area, where you will make your way soon into the hold of the plane.

You are so well-behaved, and I appreciate that. You need no checking in customs of any country, seeing’s how you contain nothing. You cause me to receive a few questioning looks from the customs agents, it’s true, because only Leonard Cohen seemed to have an idea of how to travel light. Especially this light. (Are you sure you don’t want me to hum a few bars?)

I’m travelin’ light…

I guess I’m just somebody who…

I’m not alone…

I’m just a dreamer who… 

I’ve met a few…

See? I knew you would enjoy it. It should be your, no, our, theme song. The others might not understand, however, unless we share our secret, so I’m going to explain and if you want to add anything to my explanation, feel free to go ahead and jump in.

You travel light - or rather, empty - because none of what I have at home is really necessary on trips. Oh, a lot of people think that’s not true, but we know. I mean, there are tourists and travelers. Tourists are the ones who think they need to take their whole house with them when they go away, then they frown and bitch when all the things they buy won’t fit in their poor, over-stuffed suitcases. They are really inconsiderate of suitcases like you, even though you have wheels, a nice collapsible handle, and a pivoting structure for navigating airports quickly. Those tourists are like snails, who drag their shell around everywhere with them, then complain about how tired of all the weight they are, then just stop for a cold beer on a terrace and watch everybody.

You are not my snail. You are my house and home for the duration of the trip. Most people can’t fathom that, but we’ll try to explain, won’t we? You understand me so well.

Suitcase of mine, you understood from the get-go that I needed you, needed your space, to bring back things from our travels. It is true (but perhaps not something I will readily confess to) that at times it is necessary to purchase some minor items while abroad. I do believe in brushing one’s teeth, for example, but can also stick travel-sized brush and paste in a pocket so as not to burden you. You also allow me to deposit a few other articles in your safe space. Often I just pick them up in the first open store I see and toss them in your belly. 

A lot of the time I never bring those things back with me, because they are repeats of what I already have at home in drawers and closets and the bathroom. Why do I need new underwear or a new pair of pants? I don’t, that’s the answer, plain and simple. I don’t need another new article of clothing or another souvenir from Spain or Portugal that has been hand-crafted in Chinese village. I don’t need another “Isn’t that cute?” remark from family and friends. 

You may be wondering why I bother to travel, then. I don’t mean you the suitcase, you my dear Blue Boy. I mean you, the people listening or reading. You are the ones who are confused as to why I travel and why I insist on have us - you and me, brother Suitcase - travel so darn light. You know I’m a bit reluctant to give everything away, so maybe Suitcase would like to step up and finish this story.

Suitcase here. Sure, I’ll help you because you and I are such good pals. You treat me right, so here I am. You are kind enough to take me overseas with you, all full of nothing, braving as you do the odd looks of customs officers and more than a few porters who would like to make your trip easier. You arrive and set me down carefully, whether directly on the floor, on a bench for luggage, or in a closet. You leave me to myself, recovering from jet lag, which I am susceptible to, and you leave. Immediately.

You leave, but you always come back. At first I was rather intimidated, thinking you were going out to round up tons of cheap souvenirs that wed have to lug back and distribute among the people you know. You never did that, however, because you are different. You travel light. I travel light. We both do. (Thank you again, Leonard.)

You do not have a set amount of time for traveling. It depends more on the time of year, if there are exhibits at museums that interest you, if you want to try a new restaurant or a really traditional one that you’ve always loved. (You know I know where all these places are, don’t you?) It depends on a lot of things. You are sometimes worried about all you’re acquiring, but I always comfort you because I know there’s no danger in my getting too full.)

You return after a full day of walking, listening, watching, and doing all those other things you do when you’re out. You have such a look on your face that I’ve thought you might have had too much vinho verde or too much Minho or Sar River. Or maybe you’ve spent too long in the old square or stared too long at São Bento train station. Maybe you’ve stood inordinately long on the edge of the Obradoiro, conjuring up images of the stone cutters and their skilled pounding of roughness into granitic notes of history.

Whatever you you have been doing, you have not returned empty-handed. It seems impossible that you have brought me so much. I didn’t ask for or expect it, but you remembered me at every step. It was like you were out dancing, dancing me to the end of love, as Leonard would say. I mean you knew I have been waiting and want everything you have to give. I can take it. I’m tough, and I’m the most beautiful blue you’ve ever seen. Your Blue Boy the color of campanulas and grape hyacinths, hydrangeas and famous blue raincoats, blue Mondays and the Galician sky that is suspended over Malpica, Muros, and Noia, coastal miracle that it is. 

You always look first at me when you open the door. You look at me, smile mischievously, and tell me about everything you’ve done, seen, heard, tasted, said, touched, even smelled. It’s a lot to absorb, you know. However, that’s not the whole of it…

Traveler here. You are so observant, and I hope you realize I never try to take advantage of you, of your open emptiness and the nothing you brought onto the airplane. I respect you far too much. You know what happens next, so let’s explain for those who don’t yet know.

Blue Boy, you remind me of why I travel and you never let me down. You won’t allow me to hide that reason among the cheap, fake, chintzy souvenirs and you won’t let me dash all over the place, trying to check things off a bucket list. In fact, when I acquired you, the first thing you informed me off was that no bucket lists were allowed. You were not willing to help me go through a list of buckets, not you!

Do you think we’re ready now to tell everybody what I bring you from my forays outside this room? You do have a lot of room in there, so no need to push aside dirty socks and other clothing to make room. 

Blue Boy: I’m ready, willing, and able. I want everyone to know that, despite not having packed me at all when we departed, you are an expert at fitting everything in me that needs to come back home with you. If that means throwing out some of the clothing or toothpaste you had to buy while away, that doesn’t matter. Those things don’t matter. A few things that you’ve acquired might be slipped inside a carry-on, and that is to be forgiven, since a long flight gets boring without some good reading. Ibuprofen doesn’t take up much space either, and can be necessary after all the hiking and looking. Yes, a lot of looking can make our eyes ache. 

If there’s anything else you’ve stashed away for the return trip, we’ll overlook it. I am the keeper of the real treasures, of course.

Finale:

We did it. We traveled. We returned. We brought back everything we ever wanted. 

You are unlocked and open, both sides flat on the bed. You are looking up at me like Leonard Cohen when he sings “Take This Waltz,” which is one of the most ingenious and most fragile songs ever written. I melt when you look at me that way, because you are my waltz, my Blue Heaven (you may be too young to remember that song), you are all that I have to give. I move you slightly, not shaking you, just reminding you of my presence, and you allow everything to tumble out:

roasted chestnuts under a stone arch

lavender and woad roasting in the hot sun of the Tarn

linden flowers buzzing in Labarthe-Bleys

multicolored mosses in the churchyard at Bastavales

a stray cat with blue eyes in Penne

the well where the Cathars were martyred in Cordes-sur-Ciel

rain spiking diagonally onto a two-hundred year old pane

cobblestones curling around trees in the Praça do Rossio

All these and more tumble, gush, sputter, ooze, out spreading every which-way. All of you fills up my room (which, by the way, also happens to be blue). I can see, touch, hear everything, because nothing stood in the way of bringing it all back - no cheap trinkets, no useless guide books, nothing. Just you, me, and the space inside both of us.

Now, just “Dance Me to the End of Love,” Leonard, for between your music and my memories, I am the happiest person in the world. 

And we both know that happiness weighs nothing.