Jul 11, 2022 3 min read

It’s assumed that if you pack a suitcase, it will arrive at your final destination. I blame myself. When flying, it’s best to avoid the phrase “final destination.”

When I packed it up, I expected to see it when I got there.

Side note: I have my own packing technique. It’s very simple. It’s the Pleasantville pack: black and gray shorts, black, white and gray polo shirts. Herman Munster at the beach. I throw in a pair of bright, colorful swim trunks. Because it’s black, white and a splash of color, I’ve dubbed the collection of clothes the Pleasantville pack.

P.S. Roll the clothes like burritos to avoid wrinkles.

But I digress, like I do. I said goodbye to the suitcase in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, in the Good Ole U.S of A and expected to meet it again on the baggage carrousel in Sharm El Sheikh, Egypt, a resort on the Red Sea.

P.S. I have picked some unusual vacation spots before; this was, by far, the most exotic.

For those of you who are paying attention, when I went to Melbourne, Australia, a few years back, my suitcase went to Sydney, but I got it the next day delivered to my friend Matt’s apartment where I was staying. It worked out very well.

This time, my luggage made it as far as Cairo but refused to go on the last leg of the journey. Because this had happened to me before, I packed a bathing suit and T-shirt in my carry-on. I have learned from my mistakes.

I was told to call the airport the next day after the morning flight from Cairo. The suitcase didn’t make it that day either. So, I swam in the Red Sea, hit the pool and when I dried off, walked around the old town. I watched people smoke hookahs and drink dark coffee. I bought a knock-off Ralph Lauren shirt that looked authentic. It was black, of course.

The next day, my suitcase arrived. There was a small hitch. They wouldn’t deliver it to the hotel. I had to take a cab back out to the airport to retrieve it.

I jumped in a cab to be reunited with my monochromatic clothes. Once I got to the airport, I was stopped by the Egyptian police. They wanted to know why I was going into the airport without any luggage. Joseph Heller must have been howling from heaven, caught in his Catch-22.

By the way, if you think roller-coasters are scary, try being yelled at in Arabic by the police. It was frightening. I repeated, “I’m sorry. I don’t understand” several times before they found another policeman who spoke English. I should have never gone there without learning a little of the language, at least enough to stay on the good side of the law.

It’s weird to be overjoyed to see clothes that sit in a drawer all year long, but I was thrilled to be reunited with my suitcase.