As I mind-numbingly watched the airport conveyor belt make another turn, I noticed most of the people from my flight were long gone, on their way to begin — or end — their adventure abroad. The conveyor belt was empty, save for an unfamiliar brown duffel bag that longingly awaited its owner. I felt a strong kinship with this insentient object. Woe is us, right? I walked around in circles until I could no longer bring myself to ignore the bitter truth: my suitcase had not arrived. It is one of, if not the biggest fear for any traveler, and it was happening to me, on my five week trip… on another continent.
After dealing with all the painful, logistical details, I wished the brown duffel bag good luck and exited the Paris Charles de Gaulle Airport with only a small carry-on and what was on my person. The carry-on stored a handful of possessions: my laptop, some toiletries and medications, a pair of white Converse sneakers, and yoga pants. For the flight, I had worn a white tee, jeans, the clunkiest Dr. Marten boots imaginable, and a crossbody purse, which luckily contained all my important documents. I boarded a taxi to central Paris with the hopes that my things would arrive soon, because what else could I do?
As the hours morphed into days, and the days into weeks, I lost all hope that my suitcase would be found, but I didn’t gain any bitterness in the process. It is very unpleasant to not have your belongings, especially while abroad — to put it frankly, it sucks. But realistically, there was nothing I could do but wait, and choosing to sulk would only further sully a trip I had eagerly awaited for months. In reality, there were issues far bigger than me that were – and still are – plaguing airports everywhere: staffing shortages, workers’ strikes, and more. My lost luggage was not a personal vendetta against me, no matter how much it felt like it, and I refused to let myself treat it as such.
In the beginning, it was hard — I have to admit. I had the one outfit and extra pair of yoga pants, which, by the way, is a major sartorial faux pas in France (so those were out of the picture). The Dr. Martens boots were to only be worn for short periods of time, unless I wanted to add aching feet to my list of complaints. With the compensation money I was given, I purchased my essentials and went about the trip, but I struggled to feel comfortable. It was hard to replace the things I had carefully acquired over the years, and it was even harder to have to rummage to the bottom of a pile of white pants in order to find a pair in “my size.” The painful dressing room experience that followed was enough to have me reconsidering the yoga pants.
As I walked through the streets of Paris, I gazed upon the uber-stylish French women, each more put together than the last, and then at myself, with my plain outfit and ratty sneakers. I couldn’t help but think I was misrepresenting myself. These are just temporary, I wanted to shout, I can look like you girls, too – I have better things coming!
Prior to the trip, I imagined the version of myself I would present while roaming the 4th arrondissement, a famously trendy neighborhood. I meticulously planned what I would bring on the trip — essentially, my entire closet — and purchased whatever else I thought would be necessary: a vintage Missoni cardigan, a long, flowy dress, a romantic, black blouse. I would look like the best version of myself, or better yet — like a completely new person! But alas, Air France had different plans for me.
My lost suitcase did not ruin my trip, nor did it serve as the catalyst for a reinvention of myself in Paris. Whether I found myself admiring Ernst Ludwig Kirchner’s Woman before the Mirror at the Centre Pompidou or warding off French men at seedy nightclubs, I was usually too engrossed in my environment to have any thoughts, vain or not, about my appearance and the way I was presenting myself to the world, or, much less, my luggage that was probably somewhere in the cold recesses of an airport. In truth, it is too exhausting to worry about things that are out of your control. I would’ve done a great disservice not only to the city but to myself had I constantly over-worried or moped, especially given the amount of life and excitement that surrounded me 24/7. It was easier to move forward and struggle to get another French waiter’s attention instead – trust me.
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Towards the end of my trip, while sitting at a cafe, I looked down at my then-white, now-beige sneakers. They looked as though they had been to hell and back and, for good measure, gone two or three more times. I did not complain or weep or brood about their condition. I didn’t even have time to — our fleeting waiter was finally approaching the table. I studied the two empty glasses of Kir Royal before me and thought hard about my next decision. “Another one, merci!” I told the waiter with a smile a half-second later.
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Andrea Cardenas is a rising senior majoring in Communication and minoring in Spanish.