Oh hey, book tour was fun.
(5 cities, 6 plane rides, 2 long drives, 4 room service club sandwiches, 1 soak in a questionable hotel hot tub, 1 Season 3 Office rewatch, 2 most amazing tour companions, a gajillion bitmojis, so many wonderful booksellers and librarians and media escorts, a handful of surprise guests, hundreds of incredible readers. Thank you thank you thank you.)
At nine thirty in Las Vegas I am about to die of exhaustion and bad hair but Maria says absolutely not, it is nine thirty in Las Vegas, go change your clothes, and twenty minutes later we are whizzing down the strip to the Bellagio, where she knows of a caviar bar she thinks we should try. Maria is the kind of person who knows things like that, who has friends in every city we visit, pulling stories like so many fancy dresses from the depths of her Mary Poppins bag.
(It turns out I like caviar a lot; or, more accurately, I like toast points and food that is also an activity, and I happily assemble the world’s tiniest, most intricate late-night dinner, trying not to spill capers down my dress. Everyone else is here to see Mayweather and Pacquiao beat each other to smithereens, all the girls in stilettos and glitter. I hook the heels of my boots around the rungs of my barstool, take it in.)
We are tired and rather slaphappy; we make our own excellent time. At a Hilton in Tennessee I plug in the iron and an actual flame shoots out of the wall; when I tell her about it both of us double over cackling even though it isn’t actually all that funny, totally uncontrollable, geysering up. “I could hear laughing you all the way upstairs,” Susane reports. Susane’s fans are the kind who drive seven hours to see her and I am humbled by the gentleness of her heart, by her generosity. We get cupcakes for her birthday and have them delivered to the bookstore, all of us singing in the children’s section of the Barnes and Noble, making a wish.
In the morning there’s a 4:30 wake up call, still dark, the whole city shining out the window of the thirty-fourth floor. I drag my suitcase down to the lobby, watch the rest of the world trickling in.
In June of 2002, when I was 17, I packed my bags with great enthusiasm for a teen tour to Australia with 41 of my classmates at my all-girls Catholic school. I brought all my cutest shorts and t-shirts, all my bathing suits and sundresses, a lovely polyester maxi skirt from Delia’s. I popped my platform J.Crew flip-flops onto my feet, walking carefully so as not to turn an ankle.
Then I got off the plane in Sydney and realized what I’d somehow failed to on my 22-hour sojourn across the ocean, or in all the days and weeks leading up to my trip:
summer in Westchester County means winter in Australia.
And that is the story of how I traveled the world wearing the same ratty pair of navy blue sweatpants for 14 days in a row.
I’ve traveled a lot since 2002, and I like to think I’ve gotten marginally better at packing my bags since then. So in honor of the Epic Reads Tour kicking off today, I thought I’d share 10 things I made sure to shove into my suitcase this time around.
Gold studs: for immediately feeling 30% more put together. I love these from Moulton.
Pistachios and dark choc: I’d like to tell you I’m a cool travel customer 100% of the time, but the truth is I go from zero to hangry like, scarily fast. It helps to have emergency snacks to shove into my piehole in case things start to get dire.
Dark jeans: make it harder for you to notice when I inevitably spill guacamole on them!
Wedge booties: I feel like I carry myself more like an adult when I’ve got a shoe with a heel on, but my tendency toward accidental self-harm is well-documented in this space. These seem to have a pretty good center of gravity, which is always a plus.
Leather jacket: for an extra shot of bravery.
Umbrella: because every time I don’t bring one I end up soaking wet in line at CVS behind a bunch of other soaking wet people also buying marked-up desperation umbrellas. Like a chump.
Blanket scarf: I forgot my blanket scarf when I went to LA and I legit almost cried in the airport like a small child. It’s a blanket! It’s a scarf! It’s a pillow! It’s a tent! It is a goddamn miracle, is what it is, and I have placed it right next to my front door so I don’t accidentally leave it this time.
Mom’s emergency pouch: I read once that if you carry an Advil, a band aid, and a tampon, people will always think you have your shit together even when all other evidence clearly indicates to the contrary.
More underwear and hair ties than I could ever possibly need: because I have never once in my life thought, damn, I really brought too many hair ties and pairs of underwear on this trip.
Nora Roberts audiobook: for emergency consumption in blanket tent, natch.
Hey Chicago-types, come see me tonight at 5pm at The Bookstall! I hear there’s gonna be pizza. And check out the rest of the Epic Reads events here. Can’t wait to meet you all!
