Feb 9, 2016 3 min read

Next week will mark the start of a trip I have dreamed of my entire adult life.

Travel is an obsession for me, but that little thing called work keeps getting in the way.

Several years ago, I decided I would not spend another birthday without doing something memorable, so I often go skiing or take a birthday trip.

This year marks a significant milestone on the birthday scale, so I decided to go big: Italy.

I’ve been fortunate enough to have traveled to Europe several times over the years but never made it there. I always say that if I ever get to Italy, I may never come back thanks to the food, shoes, cars and men.

We shall see.

During my first trip to Europe a few decades ago, my suitcase held all of my clothes, but my small backpack contained valuables such as my video camera (remember those?), allergy pills and sunglasses.

The true necessities of money and passport stayed concealed in a waist belt hidden under my shirt.

After a sleepless night on a train to Dresden, Germany, my friends and I weren’t sure of which station to exit.

After standing and sitting back down at each stop, I tired and slid off my backpack behind me. We finally got off and found storage lockers to stash our bags for the day while we looked around town.

My friend asked, “Where’s your backpack?” What ensued was straight out of a National Lampoon movie. We looked at each other with eyes as big as saucers and shouted, “The train!”

We dashed up the stairs and down the long line of doors to the platforms. I tore onto the train and ran down the aisle looking in row after row of seats.

The attendant followed me yelling in German and trying to help me. I finally located our compartment of red seats on the right side of the car and lying there was my beloved backpack.

I grabbed it and held it up to the window to show my friend who was waiting on the platform.

Just then, the conductor blew a whistle and the train began to move. I was on my way to Poland. Warsaw, to be exact.

Through the attendant’s broken English and my abysmal German, we agreed I would get off at the next stop, then come back on the next train.

This was all at eight in the morning before any coffee. When I eventually returned to the Dresden station, my friends asked how far I had made it, and none of us stopped laughing for days.

Years have passed, and I still have that same backpack – a bit worn but still in good shape. It’s vintage now.

I’ve thought about buying a new one for this trip, but somehow I feel that backpack must come to Italy with me.

If I don’t return, look for me in Tuscany. Or Poland.

Kristin Emery can be reached at kristinemery1@yahoo.com.