I travel light when I fly, only ever with a backpack and perhaps a small carry on to cram under the seat on top of that, but usually only the backpack. I tend to wear the same clothes over and over—a couple different outfits—and can always wash anything that needs it the sink or bathtub where I'm staying. Knowing that I never have to wait at the baggage carousel feels like I've figured something out that others haven't (which I know isn't true).
Headed to the AWP Annual Conference in Seattle, I had a couple pairs of pants, a couple shirts, toiletries, socks, underwear, laptop, headphones for in-flight movies, and fifteen of the twenty author copies of A Northern Spring that Trio House sent me (the other five had been given away already to some of the book's principles). I plan to carry a few with me in a smaller bag with a shoulder strap (packed flat into my backpack) in case I encounter a situation where it's handy to have a copy to give away, swap, or sell. Fifteen is probably way too many for that purpose, but I have the space and the backpack—I've tested it—isn't too heavy on the shoulders with the books in it.
Fifteen copies is, though, enough to trigger a warning with the TSA. Via the security scanner, they must look like a big brick full of the intention to obscure. Three TSA officials—a woman and two men—waved me over to a table at the end of the baggage conveyor. The woman did all of the talking, asking me the standard questions—where I'm going, etcetera—as their six hands in matching rubber gloves unzipped and probed my bag's various outer pockets . . . and then they got to the books in the main compartment. I told them that they're advanced copies of my new book. The woman—still speaking for the three of them—was nice enough but didn't ask me what the book is about, what I write—not anything like that. They split up the work, hands grabbing copies and ruffling through the pages like their flipbooks, as if each copy had a different set of animation, a different show. It took awhile to get through all fifteen, and I used the time to put my shoes, belt, etcetera back on. They handed me my backpack, all unzipped and opened, the TSA version of graffiti that says WE WERE HERE. I put everything in place again on one of the get-yourself-back-together benches, and still had time for a pre-flight Bloody Mary near my gate.
PHOTO: My trusty, emerald green backpack, which I don't think you can get in this color anymore. It has been to numerous ports foreign and domestic, but never once has ridden in a cargo hold.
Headed to the AWP Annual Conference in Seattle, I had a couple pairs of pants, a couple shirts, toiletries, socks, underwear, laptop, headphones for in-flight movies, and fifteen of the twenty author copies of A Northern Spring that Trio House sent me (the other five had been given away already to some of the book's principles). I plan to carry a few with me in a smaller bag with a shoulder strap (packed flat into my backpack) in case I encounter a situation where it's handy to have a copy to give away, swap, or sell. Fifteen is probably way too many for that purpose, but I have the space and the backpack—I've tested it—isn't too heavy on the shoulders with the books in it.
Fifteen copies is, though, enough to trigger a warning with the TSA. Via the security scanner, they must look like a big brick full of the intention to obscure. Three TSA officials—a woman and two men—waved me over to a table at the end of the baggage conveyor. The woman did all of the talking, asking me the standard questions—where I'm going, etcetera—as their six hands in matching rubber gloves unzipped and probed my bag's various outer pockets . . . and then they got to the books in the main compartment. I told them that they're advanced copies of my new book. The woman—still speaking for the three of them—was nice enough but didn't ask me what the book is about, what I write—not anything like that. They split up the work, hands grabbing copies and ruffling through the pages like their flipbooks, as if each copy had a different set of animation, a different show. It took awhile to get through all fifteen, and I used the time to put my shoes, belt, etcetera back on. They handed me my backpack, all unzipped and opened, the TSA version of graffiti that says WE WERE HERE. I put everything in place again on one of the get-yourself-back-together benches, and still had time for a pre-flight Bloody Mary near my gate.
PHOTO: My trusty, emerald green backpack, which I don't think you can get in this color anymore. It has been to numerous ports foreign and domestic, but never once has ridden in a cargo hold.
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