There’s this scene in the 80s remake of “The Fly” where Jeff Goldblum — this quirky, eccentric scientist — explains he has five sets of the same outfit in his closet so he never has to expend brainpower deciding what to wear. When you’re a mad scientist, you need to spend all your heavy thinking on more noble causes, like how to accidentally turn yourself into a giant, dung-loving insect.
Makes sense — the outfit part, at least. I think of that scene every time I get ready for a trip. Or more importantly, pack for a trip. Because in my mind there are few things worse in the world — maybe a beaver trimming my toenails — than packing.
Mind you, I love to travel. You give me a chance to take a trip and I’m halfway through airport security before you can say, “if you want a seat with a seat belt, that’s an extra $25.”
I don’t care where I’m going as long as I’m going. It’s the sense of adventure, of journeying somewhere new and unknown. I love the planning that goes into getting there — the travel logistics, where to stay, where to eat or some inconsequential bit of information (a men’s room with a view, anyone?)
But don’t make me pack! Oh, please, please, PLEASE, don’t make me pack.
It’s excruciating torture. When it comes to clothes and travel, there’s no way you can get it right. You can plan out everything, prepare for any eventuality (I once survived a locust swarm thanks to proper preparation), but you can’t — no matter how hard you try — nail a trip when it comes to clothes.
It’s impossible. No matter how long or short a stay, you won’t have enough shirts or socks or garments that match. You’ll be too casual when something is formal. And when you take along formal, you’ll look like a buffoon when you find out you’re going to the beach.
You’ll pack way too much, or way too little — “How did I think I could make it three weeks on two pair of underwear?!?” And you’ll inevitably spend the whole trip cursing yourself for bringing that pair of shoes that don’t fit and give you blisters that are shaped like Elvis.
I have an upcoming trip to New Orleans for a conference, and I should be ecstatic. For the most part I am, but part of me is getting the packing twitchies. New Orleans in November? What will I wear!?!
Is it humid? Cold? Flooded? Could there be a blizzard? I don’t know. With packing for travel, it’s always a crapshoot.
There are just too many incalculable variables: What if it rains? What if I go somewhere fancy? What if dragons invade and I have to fight them off? What if I see the queen and she invites me to play bridge?
How many pairs of shoes do I bring? That’s always a big question for me. My initial reaction is 17, because I also have to take a pair of rubber boots in case there’s gator hunting.
These are the things I think about. And yet, no matter how much “packing planning” I do, I always find I’m unprepared, under-equipped and a sock away from spending the whole time naked.
I always end up looking like a patchwork quilt of a man. I walk around in plaid shorts, a black turtle neck, and white socks with loafers. I’m a Franken-traveler.
It’s enough to make a guy swear off travel forever, just to be free of the hassle.
What I really need are huge steamer trunks carted about on elephants with luggage boys and a personal valet to sniff the weather and lay out the appropriate clothes for me each morning. Worry-free travel I call it, and that alone is reason for me to play the lottery.
But until that day, I guess I’m on my own to suffer through it alone. So, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go consider whether 17 pairs of shoes will fit in my suitcase. If only I was a mad scientist.