I've always disdained Rick Steves' followers, their smug rolled pants, rolling backpack, "backdoor" traveling ways. So, I felt their eyes on me as I lugged my massive, bulging carryons on the plane to San Francisco and then to New York and then to Frankfurt and then to Florence. The obvious question was undeniable, even to me: Who is this crazy woman packing everything she owns into four suitcases?
Even so, it wasn't enough. I packed towels and sheets and toys and bath gel and clothing for 30 degrees Celcius. I didn't even think about dish cloths and foil and cleaning supplies....
And all of that doesn't matter. When we looked out the window, Brent said, "Pinch me." I did. Hard.
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