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They just kept going round and around on an limitless loop, the identical purple knapsack, inexperienced duffel bag, and bungee-corded brown box circling the room like refugees stuck on a Ferris wheel. My husband Karl's suitcase appeared instantly, loaded with Etro striped shirts, Ferragamo loafers and his prized Dries Van Noten sports coat. However after two hours of waiting, frantically leaping from one baggage carousel to another as a smattering of arriving flights touched down, it became painfully clear that I would be spending the next ten days in Italy caught with the clothes I had on my again: a BO-infused green T-shirt with a pink coronary heart silk- screened throughout the front, a pair of jeans that have been decorated with numerous in-flight meal mishaps and highlighter-yellow slipper-sneakers. Not even my carry-on bag may save me -- all it contained, besides my wallet and passport, was a handful of Dramamine, a horseshoe- formed neck pillow and a dogeared copy of Thomas Mann's appropriately titled "Demise in Venice. "

It wasn't like this the last time Karl and i were in Italy. Two years earlier, I had an entourage of luggage once we made our method from Rome to the Amalfi coast to attend the marriage of Karl's good pals, Eric and Shana. Again then, my multiple baggage have been jammed with all the things from the filmy peignoir set I had planned to pull out on our first night in Rome to the full-size choose's robe I had volunteered to transport to Positano, a favor to the Officiant (who later admitted he wished the extra area in his own suitcase for a postwedding procuring spree in Milan). Instead of asking myself, 'Do I really want all these shoes?' I advised myself as I demolished my condo in a state of packing frenzy, 'You will be prepared for something' -- from a freak snowstorm to the sweltering heat that this new love held for me.

In fact, all this overzealous preparedness was probably a manner of managing my anxiety, a belief that so long as I packed that pair of silk cargo pants, those fourteen tubes of lipstick, and, I am embarrassed to admit now, a spare roll of rest room paper, I would in some way manage to keep away from one other form of journey emergency, one the place my new boyfriend decided he did not really care for my company after spending 5 consecutive days together with his plus-one wedding date. Karl and i had been seeing each other for just a few months, and up until our Italian getaway, we had spent only a handful of weekends together, lolling around in bed or on one among our respective couches watching reruns of "Family Man." This trip required putting on precise clothing and remaining upright for an prolonged time period, negotiating territory past our regular haunts in D. C., and sharing a bathroom with a handheld showerhead and a door that did not lock or do much to block out certain, er, noises.