Tuesday — tomorrow by the time this posts — I’m getting on a plane to spend 10 days in Paris. As of Saturday, I haven’t packed a thing. I’ve dragged a suitcase up from the basement, spritzed the inside with Guerlain Eau Impériale, and left it to air. I’ve bought a few euros to get me into town, and I’ve arranged for a house sitter and a ride to the airport. But I haven’t packed a thing.
Packing a suitcase is like assembling a capsule of “you” — or at least the “you” you want to be on your trip. It’s the chance to distill your style and choose the few pieces of jewelry, the lipstick, the perfume that best telegraph who you are. It’s your armor and its your comfort. That’s a lot of pressure.
Packing for Paris is even more intimidating…
