My travel buddy packs for overseas holidays on the assumption that laundromats don’t exist. We once evicted 15 of the 50 shirts she’d stashed for a 6 week sojourn and she wore less than half the survivors. I recently toted a dearly beloved heavy pullover and a fur hooded puffer jacket across five steamy summer destinations for just one month of cooler climate. Are you as crazy?

Much goes into selecting our holiday wardrobe and, unless mounting a Mt Everest expedition or a Congo line through the Congo, packing is half the fun as we plan for every possible luxurious scenario. Phone calls back and forth, ‘I’m taking just nine pairs of shoes and my pet yak, what about you?’ We rejoice when we manage to squeeze the lid closed and heartily congratulate ourselves when our bag weighs in to a gram under airline maximum. But think about this…

Historic townships and cliff clinging villages are gloriously atmospheric, culturally fascinating and ever so quaint; but they’re also a pain in the ass to negotiate with luggage. Cobble stones with gaps so large, small children disappear; slopes so steep they should be serviced with an inclinator…and then there’s the steps. Slippery, rocky steps. Subterranean train platform steps. Trains themselves with steps! Centuries old buildings with dodgy lifts…and stairwells…and flight upon flight of STEPS!

Lug luggage up and down said steps and across crooked cobbles and within moments your back and shoulders are aching as if you’ve just gone six rounds with Mike Tyson. Your face is red and your parched colorless lips are muttering profanities you didn’t even know you knew for your haunted panda eyes have just caught sight of yourself and you notice your hair has now morphed from chic to shite. Mournfully pondering the bag lady mess while studiously ignoring the steady stream of sweat (yes I know, I know, women are said to ‘glow’ or ‘perspire’ or something while horses sweat, but it’s bloody SWEAT ok?!) ruining your gorgeous silk as it makes it’s way down the length of your body and pools in your brand new Gucci loafers, you manage to gasp just two words as you finally fall into the foyer…Alcohol! STAT!

Seriously darling…the whole sordid look is so très, très uncool when swanning from one foreign country to the next sans muscle bound male or soirée of servants don’t you think?

But what’s a girl to do?

Well unless your planning a holiday on a sunny terrazzo overlooking a sparkling azure blue ocean where a bikini, sarong, gorgeous beach hat, slick of gloss and a fruity red cocktail are the only de rigueur; stay tuned for my next post. It’s sporting a bunch of handy hints on what NOT to do for I have the answer to those packing woes!

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