07/10/2000

Traveling Abroad

Traveling abroad this summer? The first time I went to Europe I packed and shipped a steamer trunk full of clothing, music, books and my flute to my destination. By the time it found me four weeks after I arrived, I was fed up with hauling around the two suitcases full of stuff I had brought on the plane, so I promptly sent the trunk back without even opening it.

The second time I headed across the Atlantic, I brought two wrinkle-free dresses, underwear, pajamas and a toothbrush, plus a folded, empty garment bag for souvenirs. I felt weightless by comparison!

In the story below, my daughter adds a new twist to the packing dilemma ..

The Shirt on My Back
By Nikki Bruno

"... and I had nothing but the shirt on my back," Gramps always concluded. My grandfather's ancestral story of poverty, freedom and pilgrimage fed my dreams growing up. I was impressed that this man had built a life for himself with very few tools; even more fascinating was his ingenious method of wardrobe-culling. When I traveled abroad after graduation from college, I unknowingly discovered Gramps' secret.

I packed two of my least favorite tee-shirts for the trip.

Number One: The Bahamas, pastel pinks and greens, stylized palm trees under pale yellow sun, surfer sliding, levitating, in air above block-waved ocean. Do they surf in the Bahamas? My high school boyfriend gave it to me after a family trip. I shoved it in the back of my closet when we broke up.

Number Two: VERMONT, stunning gem-blue background, wacky-colored cows hovering on the blue range. Bought it in Ludlow in summer, early 1990s. I'd have worn it more if one cow said "Moo" in a cartoon speech-bubble. By placing it in my backpack with one other t-shirt, I am forced to wear it. This is my self-imposed plan to "rediscover" the treasures of my wardrobe.

I wear The Bahamas in the desert. This shirt has a white background and keeps me relatively cool. When the heat gets unbearable around 11 am I wind the shirt around my head like a sheik and ride the camel in my sports bra. VERMONT I save for late nights out at discotheques in Spain. The color dresses me up and brings out the flecks of non-blue in my brown eyes. I get bumped and spill sangrķa on the third of nine floating cows.

Disculpe, apologizes the caballero who bumped me. Mire la vaca.

I retort. "Buddy, be careful of my cow."

I also wear VERMONT while playing cards over extended meals in Austria. Bridge, not love, is the international language.

Three weeks into my travels in the Mediterranean, I'm sick of The Bahamas. Now I'm using the shirt as a tablecloth for roadside picnics, a sweat-mopper and all-purpose wiper, a pillow cover. A wrap for wine bottles.

My self-imposed wardrobe rediscovery isn't working. I never liked these cows or stylized palm trees. I'm longing for "Sweet Valley High," the ultra-soft tee-shirt I was given as a uniform when I posed as one of the Sweet Valley High twins, giving out book samples at Barnes & Noble for a ridiculous temp job. I wear this shirt to bed and for household chores.

How I miss my ugly black-and-yellow "Wizard of Oz" t-souvenir of my first appearance in a musical in the sixth grade. I wore my clothes baggy then, and it's still too large. Against the orders of friends and fellow travelers, I resort to sleeveless shirts with a wide-rimmed hat that I'm convinced throws shade on my shoulders.

The first blisters form on my sunburn, and it's back to The Bahamas. With each wearing the t-shirt loses more shape, becomes thinner and softer, colors faded from the grit. I wash it about once a week. VERMONT has been officially declared the special occasion t-shirt. When I don it for my first sheep-shearing experience in New Zealand, the blue is just as stunning and the sangrķa stain has blended in.

For my flight back to California? VERMONT, of course. The rubbery raised cows are cracked and flaking off by now. I use The Bahamas as my napkin, and when the flight attendant comes by to pick up our lunch trays, he glances disgustedly at the neatly folded, tattered piece of t-shirt as I hand him my tray. Back home, I dump the contents of my traveling wardrobe into a Hefty T trash bag and throw VERMONT on top of the pathetic pile.

"Wardrobe rediscovery," I realized, was a psychological ruse, a euphemism for my true subconscious strategy. I now knew why Gramps burned his legendary shirt long ago. The clothing you travel with does not become precious to you. Packing something, it turns out, is the best way to justify throwing it out when you get home.

Please send questions or comments to bbruno@snet.net.