18 hours in just ten paragraphs

So, last Friday was the Day Of Travel. Post binning, bagging, boxing and baying, this is what I’m left with.

Suitcase number one is holiday clothes. We are banking on California living up to its ‘Sunshine State’ reputation. On the upside, vest tops and cut downs don’t take up a heap of space.

The drawback is that since we stashed our winter garbs up in the Warminster loft, London has decided to get all autumnal on our asses, which lead to me going out in Havaianas whilst this was happening.

Here’s hoping the desert air can cure another bout of snottiness.

Suitcase number two is Brazilian Jiu Jitsu apparel. Whilst the boyfriend’s primary motivation for picking the US of A is to worship, correction, *train* at Multiple World Champion Andre Galvao’s Atos academy, my own dalliance with the sport has been touch and go of late. Still, I’d hate to have an epiphany and then find I have nothing to wear.

The mini suitcase is full of camera equipment, leads, computer harddrives etc. It’s breaking the two bag rule a bit, but it’s hand luggage and we’re hoping to wear and ditch some of the other stuff on the way back.

Onto Heathrow airport, and flight BA 273. By some strange twist of fate, the Worst Possible Idea’s launch day was accompanied by The Day I Was Picked As The Security Control Passenger. Or so they told me anyway. Between online check-in and boarding the vehicle, I was stopped and sent back twice, had my belongings unpacked twice, and was patted down twice. After five separate incidents where staff surreptitiously flicked over their paperwork to confirm my name was on their secret list, even I was questioning my connections and wondering if I’d accidentally joined an extremist sect. After all, I do like talking to strangers and I’m not the best at concentrating.

Boyfriend and I took up residence on the plane, which was kindly chilled to match the outside air temperature (at 30,000 feet). I bravely battled on by stealing every blanket in the vicinity, doing my best ET impression and tucking into the free wine.

Ten and a half hours later (three of which were spent unconscious on my part) we landed, and were greeted by Homeland Security, and an hour-long queue. If anyone is thinking about illegally hopping into San Diego, I’d say skip it, those guys have a talent for analysis that would shame Sigmund Freud.

This is what people look like after half a day in the air travel system. The rings under my eyes could be exhaustion or a migration of mascara, by this point I was past caring. It was time for a taxi to the illustrious-sounding ‘California Suites,’ our home for the next two weeks…

Losing the baggage, or losing my mind?

I heart stuff. From the coffee table books, to the cupboards full of shoes, to the tatty old bus tickets “just in case I need to remember”, I am a master-hoarder.

But in light of the recent decision, stuff doesn’t work anymore. Stuff needs storage, and storage costs money. And second to stuff, having enough money in the bank to pay for a hotel room or an emergency plane ticket is what makes me feel secure enough to embark on the Worst Possible Idea.

So it’s time to delve into the deepest, darkest corners (both metaphorically and literally – I actually have a space in my room affectionately known as ‘”the mouse cupboard”) and embark on a clearout.

Operation Ditch The Baggage operates on three levels:

1) If it can be sold on eBay, list it. Even if only raises 99p, and involves a painstaking triage of “how much will it cost to ship to Tasmania?”, “what is the measurement around the inside of the armpit?” and “can you send me a photo of the underside of the sole?” type questioning, followed by hours in the post office queue (a place where time stands still and iphone signals are zero) it will be uploaded. Even though it makes the minimum wage look like a “Get Rich Quick” scheme in comparison, every penny counts when it comes to the Travel Fund.

2) If it can’t be sold on eBay, it goes to charity. I need all the good karma I can get.

3) If it’s not really selling type stuff (that’d be the old bus tickets then) it goes in the bin. I will admit to misusing wine at this point.

The upshot of Operation DTB is a house full of boxes, carrier bags, rucksacks, envelopes and courier parcels for about four weeks. I make a few hundred quid (extra thanks to the boyfriend, flatmate and my mum for donating their unwanted bits to the eBay cause) and some new friends (my word, not theirs) at the Post Office. I have a lot of weird dreams (sorting through 20 odd years of old letters will do that to you) and end up with two 23kg suitcases of holiday-based belongings and some house things which we will stash in the boyfriend’s mum’s loft.

Two weekends before we leave, we drive the housey stuff up to said loft. Despite a bit of pre-pickup wonkiness (“I might have forgotten which pedal is which in the car”), I discover a natural affinity with the white van man.

You might imagine that these emerging talents, coupled with the newly minimalist belongings, would result in a state of inspired zen calm. Not exactly so. Half the time I’m gleefully transferring 99p increments from PayPal into my bank account, overloading the charity shop, and slinging black sacks into the bin. But in the early hours of the morning, or whenever the wine wears off, I also find myself wondering if I’m perilously close to a breakdown. Is this spiritual cleansing, or some crazy nihilistic attempt to delete my entire existence? Would I be able to tell the difference?

I find myself staring at empty cupboards, thinking “Christ, I had such great storage in this flat, will I ever have such brilliant hanging space again?” The final round of goodbyes, and encouraging “We’ll miss you” declarations prompt legions of “I love my friends and family so much, and I’m so happy, and sad, but mainly happy, actually I’m not really sure” teary meltdowns, to the bemusement of my boyfriend.

But as the last few boxes are offloaded, and my place in the flat is slowly transferred over to the new inhabitants, it dawns on me that even if I’m veering closer to cuckootown than San Diego, it’s a decidedly one-way street.