An aerial view of Puerto Vallarta, and perhaps Glenn's luggage.
A week ago I was relaxing on a beach in Mexico. Today my face is red. That's not because of the sun - the wind chill has zapped out any colour - but because my luggage has yet to arrive and I'm burning up.
I guess I should have been prepared. For years I'd heard stories of friends whose bags ended up MIA. And it's not like I didn't have a premonition of bad things to come at the Mexicana check-in desk in Puerto Vallarta. In front of a big queue, officers rooted through our bags on makeshift tables. Ay Carumba, glad I didn't stow away any sex toys.
For the first few days back, I stoically told friends, "Well, at least my luggage arrived for my vacation." Or: "I'm just glad I packed all my electronics adapters in my carry-on."
Now I'm livid. I miss my clothes. I miss my hair gel. I miss my razor. Looking vaguely like Fu Manchu, I finally gave in and bought a package of disposable razors, then dug out a crusty bottle of hair gel (circa 2002) from the back of my medicine cabinet.
Another thing: it's pretty hard to get that fresh mint feel without a toothbrush. Flossing helps, but the finger-brush technique just doesn't cut it. Yesterday I broke down and bought a replacement.
Of course, what I'm most upset about are losing the memories associated with certain things. The brown track suit jacket which is the clothing equivalent of comfort food. The green checked shirt that's my good luck first date shirt.
Still, it's a new calendar year. Maybe it'll do me some good to get rid of some baggage. Until my next trip, that is.