There was a period of approximately twenty years during which my husband Herbert and I prepared for every trip in exactly the same way.
Herbert packed.
I did not.
This is not entirely accurate.
I eventually packed.
But first there was a process.
The process generally began the evening before departure.
At 4:17 p.m., Herbert would already be packed.
Passport where it belonged.
Shaving kit where it belonged.
A small pile of neatly folded clothing.
Everything calmly arranged.
Then he would sit down in a chair with a Negroni.
The Negroni is important.
At 4:18 p.m., he would ask:
“Are you packed yet?”
To which I would inevitably reply:
“I’M WORKING ON IT!”
This statement was technically true.
I was working on it.
The work simply bore no resemblance to what most people would recognize as packing.
Over the next several hours I would migrate through the house carrying various combinations of:
- one shoe
- three shirts
- a passport
- two charging cables
- a mysterious scarf
- an unidentified object I had apparently decided was absolutely essential
At some point I would announce:
“I HAVE NOTHING TO WEAR.”
At which point Herbert would take a sip of his Negroni and continue observing.
The thing I remember most vividly is that he tracked all of this with his eyes.
Not commenting.
Not helping.
Not judging.
Just watching.
Like a tennis match.
I would run through the room. Nekkid.
This was not as alarming as it sounds.
The reason I was nekkid was because, naturally, all laundry had to be completed before departure. This meant I had successfully washed every item of clothing except the ones required to be packed or worn on the airplane.
So I would streak (literally) through the room carrying:
- one shoe
- a blouse
- two charging cables
- a passport
- and no pants
His eyes would follow.
Sip.
A few minutes later I would run back the other direction carrying an entirely different set of objects.
His eyes would follow.
Sip.
After enough years, Herbert had developed a highly refined understanding of The Packing Tornado.
Most importantly, he had learned Rule Number One:
Stay out of the flight path.
This was not a metaphor.
This was a survival strategy.
If he entered the flight path, he immediately became part of the logistics problem.
“Are you going to . . .”
“NOT NOW.”
“Can I put this in the suitcase?”
“NO.”
“Do you need help?”
“I HAVE A SYSTEM.”
At which point Herbert would reply:
“Mmmm.”
That “Mmmm” carried a remarkable amount of information.
It did not mean:
“I believe there is a system.”
It meant:
“I acknowledge that you have used the word ‘system.'”
Then he would sip his Negroni and remain at a safe distance.
The funny thing is that we were both right all along.
From the outside, the process looked like a Category 5 weather event.
Yet somehow, every single time:
- the passport appeared
- the chargers appeared
- the clothes appeared
- the suitcase closed
Eventually Herbert reached the point where he no longer questioned the process.
He didn’t understand it.
But he had enough historical data to conclude that it was reproducible.
Twenty years of evidence suggested that despite all appearances, I would eventually become packed.
This afternoon, while preparing for a trip to an iaido seminar in Nanaimo, I realized something unsettling.
Somehow I have become, slightly, Herbert.
Not entirely.
Let’s not get carried away.
I am currently engaged in what can only be described as “inside sword case Tetris.”
I am debating the geometry of blue ice packs.
I recently spent an embarrassing amount of time worrying about how to take the train from the Vancouver airport into downtown.
(The answer, incidentally, is that you tap your credit card and get on the train. That’s it. I spent time worrying about a process that Chad summarized in seven words, once I thought to actually ask.)
But something has changed.
My shaving kit (formerly H’s shaving kit) now stays packed.
My travel drawer has systems.
My passport has a home.
My chargers have a home.
And, yes, my clothes are actually still on.
The things that used to require fresh decisions every trip have become infrastructure.
And I suddenly understand why Herbert could pack in the morning for almost any trip while I was still running around the house like a nude logistics consultant the night before.
He wasn’t better at packing.
He simply refused to make the same decision twice.
Now, when I find myself creating travel systems, or reducing friction, or leaving the shaving kit packed between trips, I sometimes imagine Herbert watching from his chair.
Negroni in hand.
Tracking events with his eyes.
Taking a sip.
And asking:
“Are you packed yet?”
To which, twenty years later, I would probably still answer:
“I’M WORKING ON IT!”
And somewhere in the pause that follows, I can almost hear him say:
“Mmmm.”
Which, as it turns out, was probably the closest thing to “I love you” that The Packing Tornado ever required.
