Sleeping has taken the edge of despair off my plans for the trip home, but I still worry. The subway, train, subway, subway and bus rides to bring my 70 lb suitcase to Queens could have been the twisted plotline from a dark comedy. Amtrak would not check my bag, and they were none too pleased to let me muscle it onto the train, since it did not fit down the narrow aisles. Upon arrival at Penn Station, I hauled enough junk through unfamiliar Manhattan territory to make a gypsy proud. I clunked my way up and down any number of stairwells before discovering the elevator like it was a gift from Divine Providence.
Observers probably thought I had a body in my luggage -- which, incidentally, would make a great film plot.
I leave on Saturday, and the number of solutions to the stuff problem is staggering. Ship things home? (If so, which items should I entrust to the postal service?) Purchase a smaller, lighter suitcase? Give away most of my clothes and purchase new ones when I return? Living in New York indefinitely is probably not the best conclusion, though the simplicity is remarkably alluring.
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