For one brief glimmering moment it was great. There was this delightfully odd lightness to my shoulders that I hadn’t felt in two years and I was actually gliding along the sidewalk on my way into Orlando International Airport.
I glance down and step lightly over a crack in the sidewalk –a tiny crack to be honest; minor really. It blind-sided me; I had no idea it was coming. One minute I’m nonchalantly walking along and the next minute the handle of my trolley-wheeled-pull suitcase wrenches my wrist to the side as it flips over.
Within a split second it’s a mad house of pandemonium on the sidewalk–people tripping over my luggage, other bags colliding, grandmas feebly dodging out of my path. Small children screaming in horror.
Ok, no small children screaming in horror. But the other passengers were sending me that look. You know the look; you’re no doubt guilty of it too.
The “oh-my-god-why-are-they-traveling-with-so-much-luggage-if-they-can’t-handle-it-thank-god-I’m-a-backpacker-and-can-dodge-this-sidewalk-castasprophe” look.
And that was my all too brief foray into the land of pull suitcases.
I’m sorry I cheated on you backpack, I thought it would be easier for these week long mini trips all around the US for my new job with GWOB.org.
I was so, so wrong. It didn’t work out for me. Cheers to the many others who have gone before me and mastered the art of the pull suitcase—it seems like such a lovely concept but my horror at having been that person is too fresh to give it a second chance right now.
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