Airport Adventures With a 54-Pound Suitcase

"That suitcase weighs 54 pounds, sir," the ticket agent said.  "You're going to have to shed four pounds or pay $75."

That sounded like a challenge.

It wasn't even about the money.  It would be a solid month before I was back in Livermore again, and I had resolved to get by in the meantime on two suitcases a carry-on and a personal item.

But when I first packed, by suitcase weighed roughly 918 pounds.

I tried for hours to pare it down the lightest, most essential things.  I set aside my favorite bottle of wine, that was to welcome me to my new quarters in Atlanta.  I threw away my black boots that had seen slightly better days.  I left behind my heavy coat, thinking I could survive without it for a month.

But now I had left all that behind and was about to have to pay an extra $75 anyway.  If the ticket agent was going to make me pay an excess weight fee regardless, I might as well be looking forward to drinking a bottle of good wine in my black leather jacket and matching boots while sitting on my Georgia balcony.

I couldn't stand the thought that I discarded all that other valuable stuff for nothing.  I suddenly wished that I would have kept all that stuff in my bag and added a few gold bricks for good measure.

I couldn't find any, so I stepped out of line and set about trying to lessen my load by four pounds.  The problem was that my other suitcase was already so full I had to sit on it and yank the zipper until the point of tears (for me and for it) to get it to close.  Also, both my carry-ons were bulging, and I was already wearing a jacket and carrying my laptop in my arms.

I had planned on maxing out my baggage allowance without having to lose four pounds at the last minute, and there was, literally, no room for a plan B.

I had limited options, and the only one I could envision was to just wear a lot of clothes.

I found a heavy sweater.  I put in on over my regular sweater.  Over top of it, I put on a heavy-ish hoodie with a metal zipper, that might fit underneath my coat.  I couldn't bear to try it on just yet--all I had to do was get it out of my suitcase--so I draped it between the handles of my carry-on for the moment.

I pulled out a hat and put it on. I couldn't have weighed more than a few ounces, but I was running out of body parts to double-cloth.  I took out a notebook and carried it.  I replaced a couple of magazines in my carry-on with a small book, and stuffed the magazines in my back pocket.

I briefly considered putting on a second pair of socks, but they were buried pretty deep.

Otherwise, I was wearing enough clothes to last me an entire long weekend.  Never has a Vanderbilt-educated lawyer with a six-figure salary looked more like a homeless guy.

I lugged my suitcase back over to the ticket counter.  This time, I checked in at 51 pounds, but there was absolutely nothing else I could carry.  Thankfully, the ticket agent let it slide.

I gladly handed him my largest bag and another that clocked in just under 50, but that wasn't the end of the adventure.

I was drenched in sweat from my layers of clothing, and the process of balancing two carry-ons, a laptop, a jacket, a notebook, and having to pull out an ID along the way, while also fighting MS, a progressive disease that makes me sensitive to heat and has killed my balance.  But eventually, I made it to my gate.  (Side note: it's definitely not fun to use an airport restroom while carrying basically everything you own.)  

As I got to the waiting area of the gate and plopped at a seat, I exhaled and proceeded to shed my layers, like a human onion.

Just as I removed the last (extra) layer I was wearing, I heard an announcement:

"Ladies and Gentleman, we have a completely full flight.  So everyone please consolidate your items to one carry-on and one personal item.  You will not be allowed to board with a third item, and will have to check any additional item beyond two."

This seemed an impossible command, but I had come too far to relent.

I dressed again in all the layers I had removed, except for one jacket in which I figured I would need to wrap my laptop inside.  Then I walked with a full-sized carry on, a personal item that was pushing the limit of what might fit at my feet, a notebook, and a wadded up jacket concealing a laptop.

I walked as quickly as I could, attempting to use my body to shield some of my stash as I handed the agent my ticket.  Somehow, she let me pass.

I proceeded to board the plane, immediately remove three layers of clothes, and breathed a sigh of relief.  But not too big of a sigh, because in an hour I'd have to connect in L.A. and redo the whole process.

It turned out my next flight was full too, so I had to do the same ridiculous charade.  One of the agents gave me a hard look ("Don't judge me," I thought.  I take up the same functional space on the airplane whether I wear one sweater or five), but she let me pass.

I made it to Atlanta eventually, with all my stuff in tow, and nothing even broke on the way.

Maybe I could have fit something else after all.