One-bagging it: Better with wheels

So after my last trip to Europe, one thing I didn't write much about was my attempt at one-bag travel. Well, it was at least what I would call one-bag travel; some purists would say that since I had a carry-on and a personal item, that wasn't technically one-bagging it. Whatever. I was traveling light, and I didn't check any luggage going out on my long-haul flight.

I got really excited about the idea of carry-on only travel as I was planning for my trip. I visited web sites like this one, and this one, and, knowing that I had a trip with lots of legs and travel on all manner of planes, trains, subways, and buses, I was sold.

The premise of one-bag travel is pretty simple — pack really light, and cut out "just in case" items. This is somewhat difficult for me, as I like to be prepared for anything. But when I began planning what I wanted to take on my trip, I found that I could still take the sorts of essentials I like to have (sewing kit, eyeglass repair kit, mini roll of duct tape, enough band-aids for minor surgery) and still have plenty of space in my suitcase. And I did cut out some of the more ridiculous always-prepared items I might have otherwise taken.

The primary way to fit everything into a carry-on is to cut down on your clothing and shoes. I planned to take only two pairs of shoes, plus an odd little pair of lightweight shower flip flop things, and I bought a travel clothesline, sink stopper, and laundry soap sheets to do some wash in the sink (I also planned to, and did, make use of the washer and dryer at our house in Ireland).

eBags Weekender (photo from Amazon)

I also asked for (and received) a new bag for Christmas, and based on the advice of the one-bag experts, I went with one without wheels, the eBags Weekender, a relatively inexpensive foray into the wheel-less bag world. This was a major mind shift for me, as I've always used wheeled suitcases, but I believed the arguments. They were, to sum up: without wheels, your hands are free; without wheels, you don't have to worry about cobblestones in Europe; without wheels, you won't have to worry about stairs; and wheel-less bags are lighter and have more interior space than wheeled bags.

I was all ready for one-bag travel. And then two things happened. One was that I developed a foot problem, and my podiatrist recommended taking my air cast in case I needed it (I did). The other is I came down with some sort of cold/sinus infection/plague just before I left. As a result, I was suddenly lugging around an unexpected air cast and small pharmacopia of cold remedies in my bag, which made it weigh a lot more than I was expecting it would.

(As a disgusting aside: sadly, none of the cold remedies cleared up my illness, even a z-pack...what finally ditched it was throwing up pure stomach acid when I had food poisoning. Nothing burns out your throat-schnoz-ear system faster.)

So, cue me with my heavier-than-expected bag, walking through the various transit systems of Ireland and the United Kingdom. The first annoying thing was that the chest straps that helped make it more stable also made it a pain to take off. So when I was waiting for the subway or on an actual subway car, I'd have to weigh the effort of undoing all the straps against the weight hanging on my back. But the second, far more concerning thing, was all that weight on my back. Turns out, my back is not that strong. As I walked through the endless tunnels of the London Tube system, my shoulders ACHED, and I began to long for wheels — even when I encountered stairs. Said stairs and cobblestones were few and far between when compared to the amount of regular, flat pavement.

The longer I went on my trip, the more unhappy I was about my bag. Everything else worked pretty well. I did laundry in my hotel rooms, and learned the important lesson that things dry much faster if you roll them in a towel after washing them. I discarded a book after I finished it, with a Bookcrossing.com marker in it. I used solid toothpaste and shaving cream sheets and Lush solid shampoo (okay, maybe that last one doesn't count...I use those every day).

I enjoyed not having a ton of stuff to keep track of, and not having to worry about carting around a steamer trunk-sized suitcase. I just really, really, wanted wheels, to the point where I thought about trying to find a store selling one of those collapsible luggage carts to start using on my bag.

Skyway No Weight Ultra (photo from Amazon)

So this year I decided to buy a lightweight wheeled bag. I lusted after the Zuca Pro, but went with the MUCH less expensive Skyway No Weight Ultra. It's only about 2-3 pounds heavier than my eBags backpack, but it has sweet, smooth, ultra-stable wide-stance wheels.

Then I put it to the test. Without an enormous amount of thought put into packing (I took three books, a weight no-no, and too many toiletries and clothes), I took it on the closest thing to a European trip you can do in the U.S. — a six day train trip to Boston. Cobblestones? Not so much, but there were definitely brick streets and stubbly D.C. Metro platform edges. And the Boston T's long subway corridors, punctuated with odd half-flights of stairs, were pretty much the exact equivalent of the London Tube (okay, maybe there wasn't quite as much gap to mind). Thanks to Metro's rampant escalator failures, I also got some experience at carrying it up and down full flights of stairs.

My verdict? Wheels win. Wheels win so much, it's not even funny. It was totally stable on the bricks and platform stubble, and pulled just fine. It has a nice rubber carry handle that I could grab whenever I needed to reach down and carry it on stairs, and because of the light weight, it was no big deal any time I needed to do so. And I popped that sucker up in the overhead train bin with no problems at all.

I'm going to keep my wheel-less bag, as I think there will still be some travel situations where it will be the better bag, and if I do ever need to travel with two bags, having one wheel-less, lighter-packed bag will be really handy. My old asshole-sized carry-on (you know, the one that's just a leetle bit over the appropriate size, which meant I never actually used it as a carry-on) will be the casualty of the new suitcase purchase.

I'm looking forward to one-bagging it again in Europe next year, with wheels. Now I just need a Kindle to deal with that too-many-books problem.

In which I become a total Lush fangirl

Tracking convoys in the Cabinet War Rooms.

A few weeks before my trip, I was browsing the site for Lush, my favorite cosmetics company, when I noticed a link for spas in its navigation. I clicked on it, saw the page, and then emitted a shrill squeak: "LUSH HAS A SPA?!?!"

Turns out Lush has started up a handful of spas attached to some of their UK stores, including one in London. I watched the videos on their signature treatment, the Synaesthesia massage, and their other treatment, the Validation facial (yes, there are two, count 'em two, treatments). The Synaesthesia massage was pretty pricey at 125 pounds, so I thought about it for awhile. A few hours later, I was on the phone to Lush's King Street store in London, booking a massage.

The massage was for late in the afternoon on Friday, the last full day of my trip, so when I woke up Friday, I had some pretty serious mixed feelings. I only had one more full day of my wonderful trip, but I was capping it off with my long-anticipated Lush massage. I think I may need to end more trips in this manner.

In the morning, I headed out to the Cabinet War Rooms, the bunkers used by Winston Churchill and his staff during World War II. They'd been on my radar during my previous two trips to London, but I'd never quite managed to make it there, and I was glad I did this time. The war rooms are preserved in their 1940s state, and you can almost hear the telephones ringing and typewriters clacking away as the Blitz rages on above you.

The Map Room in the Cabinet War Rooms.

For staffers working in the war rooms, though, the living spaces were so uncomfortable that many of them took their chances sleeping at street level. The staff was convinced that one room, used exclusively by Churchill, contained the only flushing toilet in the place. In reality, it had a hot line to Presidents Roosevelt and, later, Truman, at the White House — the first of its kind. All in all, the war rooms are both a slightly unnerving subterranean space and a unique glimpse into a WWII nerve center. I'm glad I visited this time around.

Horse Guards.

I took a bit of a walk after emerging from the dim war rooms, towards the Horse Guards Parade, and, noticing a large crowd, I was lucky enough to slip up and witness the changing of the Horse Guards. I snapped some pictures, but I can't say it's enormously exciting, and it made me glad I've never attempted to brave the crowds and watch the changing of the guards at Buckingham Palace, no doubt more crowded. I'd planned to walk via Trafalgar Square to St. James's Street to do some shopping, but when I got to St. James's Street, I learned that Good Friday in England is a lot more significant than it is in the US — all of the shops were closed.

Apsley House (unfortunately, no photography inside).

Fortunately, I was near Apsley House, the former home of the Duke of Wellington. The enormous house is on the borders of both Green Park and Hyde Park, too large for a family — even a Duke's family — to maintain in modern times. The family gave the house to the UK in the 20th century, but maintains some apartments there. The portion you can tour is extremely lavish, with its high ceilings and brilliant fabric-covered walls. Much of the Duke's extensive art collection — some won during battle — is on display. The portion you can tour doesn't take a huge amount of time unless you really work over the art on your audioguide (I didn't), but it's a fascinating little sojourn into a different era.

I killed some more time with a yummy, inexpensive lunch at the Belgian basement eatery Belgo, a favorite from my first trip to London, and then, with more time-killing necessary, took the Tube over to the Victoria & Albert Museum, which was fairly close to the Lush shop. By the time I got to the V&A, I only had about half an hour, but I figured I could just poke my head in and see a few things. Wrong. It didn't take me long in that enormous museum to realize that half an hour was just long enough to be completely overwhelmed. I vowed to come back the next morning, and left to walk over to Lush.

Like all Lush shops, you could smell this one long before entering a fairly large, airy store. I headed up to the counter and told them I was there for a spa appointment, still wondering just where the spa even was, standing there waiting as they called the spa and told them I was there. A few minutes later, my therapist, Jennifer, appeared, and led me around to a set of stairs at the back of the store. We descended and came through the door, and it was a bit like we'd emerged in some country cottage, a worn table in the middle of a quaint little kitchen, with teacups and glass jars full of cream-colored massage bars lining the wall beside the sink.

The Lush Spa kitchen.

Jennifer and I sat down at the table and I filled out one of those standard spa if-you-have-a-medical-condition-let-us-know forms. From there on out, things took a huge departure from standard. Jennifer gave me a laminated paper with a series of words and phrases on it — things like "Humour," "Perspective," and "Enlightenment." After two weeks of traveling, Perspective sounded like just the thing, and Jennifer explained that my choice meant that I'd start my treatment lying on my stomach, and it would end with extra massage on my face. Up until this point, I'd been assuming that the Lush Spa's two-treatment menu basically meant that you could have any massage you'd like, as long as it was black (err, Synaesthesia), but this indicated that there's actually some variation built in — just not the normal menu-o-massages type.

Jennifer had me smell the Perspective massage bar to make sure that I liked it, and it smelled like no other Lush product I'd encountered — a mysterious combination of vanilla, citrus, and other things I couldn't place — but I liked it. Then she had me write Perspective down on a small chalkboard, and invited me to write or draw anything else about my treatment I wanted to include. I drew a sun, thinking about the perspective the sun has, looking out over the earth and other planets. Also, I am terrible at drawing, but a sun is within my capabilities.

My chalkboard.

Then Jennifer went in to prepare the treatment room, and invited me to select from an array of colored bottles sitting on a cabinet. They were a variety of sizes, and different jewel tones, but each had hand-lettered labels. There were quite a few bottles, and it took awhile to scan through them before I decided on Curious but Quiet. When we went into the treatment room, it was this bottle that she used to dropper a bit of essential oil into two sconces on the wall. The sconces were filled with dry ice, and began smoking out a scent even more indescribable than the massage bar once the essential oil hit. The rest of the room was dim, and carried on the country cottage theme as much as possible, although the big silver containers on one side, for hot and cold stones, made it look a bit as if a mad scientist had taken up residence in said country cottage.

The cabinet of essential oils.

At the back of the room was a giant shower stocked with Lush products, and Jennifer invited me to take my time getting undressed, and have a shower if I wanted, then to lie down on the table and ring a bell when I was ready. I took a quick shower and rang the bell. Then I had the best massage, ever.

The treatment room.

Synaesthesia is the art/science of crossing the senses, so that, for example, a particular smell makes you think of a color. To really do a massage that lives up to the name Synaesthesia, Lush had to go beyond the obvious sense — touch — and ace some of the other senses. Scent came in the form of the Curious but Quiet essential oil, and Jennifer began the massage by wafting more dry-iced oil beneath my towel. Sound was a combination of birdsong and slightly folky orchestral score, specially recorded by Lush for this massage, the massage motions choreographed to the music. It all came together, perfectly — this was far beyond just a utilitarian working out of knots. And I actually did experience synaesthesia, seeing green, purple, yellow, and light blue at different times during my massage. I also felt myself being mentally transported to different places — the foot of a large tree in a forest, on the banks of a deep-cut, winding stream, and beside the rough-planked side of a country house.

I was still in my own personal wonderland when the massage ended, but thankfully Jennifer invited me to take my time getting up, and to use the Lush products or shower as needed. I was not about to wash off the amazing scent of the massage bar, but I did partake liberally of the dusting powder on the shelf, which meant that I spent the rest of my day slightly greasy but smelling brilliant. I headed out of the treatment room to find Jennifer sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of special Perspective tea for me, and a massage bar and bubble bar in the Perspective scent for me to take home, included in the price of my massage. A lot of spas try to hard-sell you on their products following a treatment, but there was none of that here. Ironically, I was so blissed out and enamored of the experience, I would have bought pretty much anything — the massage bar, the tea, the music, you name it.

My Perspective massage bar. The bubble bar is underneath.

We sat at the table and chatted while I finished my tea, and by chatted, I mean I waxed effusive about how great the Lush Spa was and asked when it was coming to the United States, and she told me they are indeed planning one in New York. We also talked about various Lush products, and she showed me the serum bars they use in the facials, which had come out so well they were starting to sell them in the stores. And once I'd finished up my tea, she led me back upstairs to the serum bars (I bought one, "Saving Face," and it is actually made of magic and rainbows. Seriously.) and other products that were out in the UK but hadn't yet made it to North America. It was an amazing amount of personal attention from a therapist.

I can't wait for the Lush Spa to come to New York. I'll totally take a train three and a half hours for another massage, or to try the intriguing facial — in fact, occasionally I'm seized by the temptation to book another flight to London for some Ship Anson fish and chips and more Lush Spa goodness. The Lush Spa experience is completely different from any other spa I've gone to or read about. It's almost like a concept album for spas. Yes, this just might be the "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band" of spas. But it's also not for everyone. If you want a therapist who's going to work on a specific problem spot or deep-crackle your sore bits, this is not the spa for you. But for me, this is now the spa against which I'm going to compare all others.

But the spa was only one of the factors contributing to my dive into total Lush fangirl status. That Saving Face serum was the other — it is hands-down the best facial product I've ever bought, and I've been switching over to a more-Lush, less-chemical skincare regimen that has worked wonders. I'm kind of disgusted at myself for using products with things like Cocamidopropyl Betaine and Polyquaternium-11 in them ON MY FACE for so long. What is that stuff, even?

And yes, I did order the Synaesthesia CD from the UK site, which gave me the lovely relaxing music to listen to whenever I want, and the side benefit of learning that UK orders actually arrive faster than ones from the US site, which are shipped from Vancouver. More Lush goodness, faster! Now where is that New York spa?

Okay, so I took a cab this time

Paddington Station in London. More train and station pictures.

Although you wouldn't expect it from this oft-neglected blog, I just got back from two weeks in Ireland and the United Kingdom. Over the course of my last big trip, I turned Channel Six into a travel blog and managed a post most days. This time, I knew my internet access was going to be spotty and, well, I wanted to maximize my precious Europe time and save the posts for back at home. So NOW it's time for some trip blogging.

As the title of this post would indicate, after last year's public-transit-all-the-way New England trip, this time I ended up having to take a cab. Two cabs, actually. On my New England trip, I felt like everything came together perfectly, like I was just executing my travel plans, one leg of the trip after another. I might have been lucky. I mean, I planned an entire trip around Amtrak and didn't have any problems.

This time, things did not go according to plan. A lot.

I should have known when I had an entire middle row to myself on my redeye British Airways flight over. As I stretched out for some true jet-lag-preventing sleep, in retrospect I can see that I was sucking up all of my logistical karma. But I didn't think about such things.

Roman ampitheatre ruins

I landed in London, saw a quick sight (the Roman ampitheatre ruins in the basement of Guildhall Art Gallery), and then headed to St. Pancras train station for a train up to London Luton airport, for my flight to Ireland. I was on the train when they announced that they were at a stand; there'd been a person killed by a train on the route we were supposed to take. I had just read "Waiting on a Train," and I should have known we were screwed. Instead of figuring out an alternate plan, though, I listened to the employees at the station when they said it would be another half hour, another 40 minutes.

I'd given myself a ton of time to get to Luton, but eventually it was starting to run out. A cab from St. Pancras would have been hugely expensive — and might not have made it in time with traffic, since Luton is so far from the city it probably shouldn't have "London" in its name. I asked at the information desk if there was another way to get there. Go over to King's Cross, and take the train to Hitchin, they said, there's a bus that goes from there. And how much longer was the train from St. Pancras going to be? They didn't know, but it could be another couple hours.

Hitchin it was, then. Fortunately King's Cross station is right next to St. Pancras. I should mention at this point that I was wearing an air cast, the result of a mysteriously swollen foot that my podiatrist never quite came up with a diagnosis for. But I still managed to book it over to King's Cross, inquire there about the train to Hitchin, and get on. At this point, I figured I had about a 50/50 chance of making my flight. I sat through about a 45-minute train ride, tense, staring out the window and willing the stops to go by faster, not sure what this mystery bus situation was going to be like when I got there.

But when I got out at Hitchin, there was a cab stand. For once in my travels, I said screw the bus, and asked the first driver in line how much and how far. 24 pounds and 20 minutes. I made my flight to Ireland's Kerry Airport, and in fact took another cab (this one planned) to the house in Killarney my friends and I were renting for the week.

That didn't end up being the only logistical problem I had during the trip. I used London as my transportation base, and I was supposed to take the Caledonian Sleeper train from there to Edinburgh. Except when the train car attendant asked me when I wanted my breakfast, we had a conversation that went a bit like this:

Me: Well, let's see, we get in to Edinburgh at...

Attendant (in heavy Scottish accent): Yuuuur nawt gowin to Edinburrrahhh. Yuuuur gowin ta Glaaasgoow.

Me: !!!!!

Turns out the terrible weather that had hit Edinburgh the in the days before my trip up there had prevented the Edinburgh sleeper train from making it back. So they were putting everyone on the Glasgow train instead. All we had to do was take a train to Edinburgh from Glasgow. From a different train station. With no maps or human guidance.

The fact that I'm back here to write this blog post would indicate that I did manage to get from Glasgow to Edinburgh. I did so using a combination of following people with luggage, using Glasgow's well-placed maps, and The Force. I should note that The Force is pretty strong in me. I use it every time I need to find my way out of Baltimore.

There were other problems, too, aside from occasionally needing to wear the air cast when my foot got bad. There was the sinus infection I started the trip with (the best thing I've ever done to prepare for a trip was ask my doctor for a just-in-case Z pack prescription). There was the two-hour delay on my flight home to BWI airport that pushed me onto a midnight train home (by the time I stepped into my condo I had been up almost 24 hours straight and my eyelids were about ready to stick to my eyeballs, but I had managed to avoid a third cab and the ensuing environmental guilt).

And there was the food poisoning. Yes, food poisoning. A friend and I both came down with it after (we think) some bad fish at a pub on the Dingle peninsula. I ended up missing our group's day trip to Cork, and learning that nothing is worse when it comes up than black pudding. Nothing. After a night of throwing up, and a day of lying in bed feeling miserable, I felt well enough to keep going and seeing things. And after a few days, I was back to gargantuan pub meals, including the best fish and chips in the history of fish and chips. But more on that later.

It might seem like a real downer to make my first post about all of the things that went wrong on this trip. But there was a positive that came out of everything — I learned that it can feel far more empowering when you find your way out of a jam than when you execute a perfect plan. Many of the times things went wrong, I was by myself, and I had to figure out what to do myself, and I did it.

As it turns out, that's a pretty exhilarating feeling. Plus, it's a lot more exciting to use The Force to get to Edinburgh than out of Baltimore.

London Tube train coming in.