Do you know anyone who has names for their suitcases? Well, I don't either, which may explain the strange looks we got from people yesterday in the airport baggage claim station. We left Florida yesterday for a twenty day tour through three midwestern states, accompanied by a surprisingly large collection of suitcases. For artistic effect, I would like to decribe the suitcases as being of "all shapes and sizes and colors," but alas, we are not nearly so fortunate as to own the vast kaleidescope of bags that would legitimate such a claim. Maybe in our next lives.
Where was I?
Oh yes. So there we were waiting for our luggage to appear from within the dark mysterious innards of the aiport and be spewn forth onto the long black tongue so unpoetically called the "conveyer belt." We had a running commentary as each successive bag passed us: "OoOo, thats a cute one," "Wow. Now that's what I call purple," "Look at that girly polka dot one. I wonder whose that is... Oh, sorry, sir," and so on. After having loaded up our little cart (for which we paid three dollars, btw. Prices these days.), with five enormous suitcases, there we stood whispering to eachother: "Where's Rachel? We are missing Rachel. I hope she's not lost. We've got the two Sarah's, but that Rachel... OH! There she is!"
And so, our apologies to those poor souls with us in the airport who were perhaps wondering what sort of people packed their children in with their clothes and hairdryers. Not to worry: we just name our suitcases.