CityView Magazine

on second thought rettes and ennui, she insisted that I "simply MUST rent a villa — it's the ONLY way to travel in Europe." Because I spent my childhood vacations not in European Speaking in a Tallulah Bankhead voice suggestive of ciga- villas but in a tiny cinder block beach cottage without air con- ditioning or a telephone, this woman's advice offered endless amusement. I'll bet she even used real luggage when she traveled. When my family journeyed to the tiny cottage built in the 1950s by my grandfather at Atlantic Beach, only my parents carried real luggage. Bright turquoise and weighing a ton (this was in the days before suit- cases had wheels), this set of Samsonite belonged to my grandparents, who were happy to lend it, along with their beach house, to my parents for a week of much-needed rest. They only owned two pieces, a square toiletry Family Baggage S everal years ago, I attended a dinner party where one of the guests, a wealthy and prominent citizen of our fair city, extolled the virtues of rent- ing a villa whenever she "summered" in Europe. BY MARY ZAHRAN case and a large Pullman, both of which were used by my parents, so we children had to im- provise with our own suitcases. Having no mon- ey and absolutely no experience in the worldly matter of luggage, we settled on cardboard boxes, which were free, plentiful, and most important, lightweight. My search for the perfect box began at Wooten's Super- market, the only store within walking distance of our house. As I walked those three blocks from our house to the store, my level of anticipation and excitement grew with each step, so by the time I entered Wooten's, I half-expected crowds of shoppers to part, like the Red Sea parted for Moses, and to watch in reverent silence as I glided past them to the stock- room, where I would immediately lay my hand upon the per- fect box. It would be there waiting for me, slivers of sunlight pour- ing in through the corrugated tin roof to pinpoint its loca- tion. I would slowly approach the circle of light, my hands reaching out to embrace my treasure, much like a mother might embrace a newborn child. In that moment, I would be- come one with my box. As much as I hoped for some kind of mystical experience in the stockroom at Wooten's, it never happened. For some unknown reason, I always chose a White House applesauce box. I learned early on to check the inside of it for bugs or 14 | July/August • 2012 food stains, having once watched my older sister throw clean clothes into a dirty box in the excitement of packing for the beach. There would be no such calamity with my precious container. When we were all packed, suitcases and boxes alike, my beleaguered father, eager to depart for his only vacation of the entire year, would load everything into the car. One summer, tired of driving a station wagon overloaded with baggage and children, he rented a luggage carrier for the top of the car. He quickly realized that this plan, intended to create more space for his family, would require him to liſt high above his head all the heavy items he had previously just shoved into the back of the car. As my father stood, Atlas-like, on the sidewalk in front of our house and surveyed the task set be- fore him, we stared at him and won- dered what his next move would be. Suddenly, in a series of motions that defied both the laws of phys- ics and common sense, he picked up seemed to be propelled by a momentum all its own. It was as though some miraculous force of nature was at work. What made this feat even more amazing was the fact that the spot meant for it and no other. This action took less than sixty seconds and my mother packed not only a week's worth of clothes for my father and her but also every book, pair of shoes and toiletry item in her possession, thus making the Samsonite Pullman weigh approximately as much as a small planet. Why my fa- ther did not end up in the hospital undergoing back or hernia surgery still remains a mystery to me. We did not know it at the time, but we had just watched the Zen master of luggage handling practice his craſt. Looking back at my childhood vacations, I actually feel sorry for the Tallulahs of the world. With their stately villas and elaborate travel plans, not to mention their designer lug- gage, they will never know the joy of appreciating the little things in life. Like finding the perfect cardboard box-suitcase. CV Mary Zahran lives in Fayetteville and is the proud owner of a set of real luggage. She can be reached at maryzahran@ gmail.com the suitcases and hurled them into the luggage carrier, then stacked five cardboard boxes on top of each other and tossed them, one at a time, into the carrier like a man dealing cards in a poker game. Each piece landed exactly in

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