#2 Letter before France:

My dear travelling buddy,

In a few days, you and I will be hurtling through the sky toward France. If you’ve never travelled with me before—welcome. I’ll try not to get us lost.

At the moment, however, I’m still in Australia. Sitting at the dining table with a notebook. A pen. And an empty suitcase. I know. I've left it late. I've been extremely busy not packing.

I used to haul a suitcase the size of a small refrigerator across cobblestones, up steps, into trains, out of car boots. It built character.

These days I prefer to arrive with both shoulders still attached.

I’ve developed a system. Not necessarily a good one. Just mine.

I aim for 7kg carry-on only.

Which means that once the MacBook Pro and charging cords go in, I'm left with four pathetic kilograms for everything else: clothes, toiletries, and anything else required to avoid appearing as if I’ve been living in a hedge for a week. 

This is my theory: present as homeless and you’ll be given a newspaper blanket. Dress like a countess and servants might appear. It hasn’t worked yet—must be the missing tiara—but I’m giving it another go.

With only 7kg, the jacket must do the heavy lifting. I’ve chosen the Paris brand black Zadig & Voltaire number, which does not do it quietly. I’m hoping it says: eccentric local. Possibly owns property.

When one item is making all that noise, everything else has to recede: black, pale grey.

Here we go.

Three T’s, two pants, two cashmere pullovers. The list below says one mint green. What was I thinking. Ignore it. Gore-Tex shoes to withstand rain and cobblestones.

No handbag. Everything I need—passport, lipstick and not much else—goes in the nice deep pocket inside the jacket.

I tether my iPhone to my arm with the cord on a Maison Sabré cover. One day a motorbike thief will take the whole arm. An acceptable loss.  

That’s the packing system. No extras.

I always put a printed packing list in each bag in case I have to claim on insurance. For my own list, I add serial numbers and brands.

If you'd like to save that, right click on it, and press save.

ADDENDUM: The raincoat is smart -ish and can impersonate the jacket if required. Oh, I didn’t put this on the list, but add one black cashmere scarf, and one silk. For those 9–11 degree April days.

Now. France.

At a certain stage of life, if you can afford it, business class becomes less a luxury and more a medical necessity. Airlines have noticed this and they charge accordingly. Sometimes I think the fare must include a small château.

But I spotted China Southern Airlines at almost half the price.

A moment of reflection. Would it be different? No doubt.

Can I lie flat? The website says so, but I’ve learned to trust airline websites about as far as I can throw my stuffed carry-on.

Will I survive? Statistically, probably.

Emotionally? Jury’s out.

More importantly, will the savings fund an unreasonable number of excellent French lunches?

magnifique—I can still remember the day and place—Pézenas 2018

Absolument.

Asparagus and a silky, lemon-sharp butter sauce. Ohhhh.

The route: Brisbane to Guangzhou, then Paris. It originally came with a seven-hour stopover. An interesting amount of time. More recently they've upgraded it to seven and a half. Hmm.

I’ll sit, walk, write a little. Ok. A lot. Let's test exactly how much champagne it will take before I start typing in Cantonese.

I’ve also been doing mental calisthenics to work out the perfect sleep schedule to arrive in Paris neatly slotted into the right time zone.

This is what I’m proposing.

Stay awake. Stay awake longer. Sleep aggressively on the Paris leg. At 7.30am arrive refreshed, or at least upright. Ring to plead for an earlier checkin than 3.30pm. Stash bag. Wander Montmartre. Acquire flowers. Avoid sleeping in a public park.

Comments welcome on this master plan.

I probably won’t take a photo of the Sacré-Cœur from this side—through a forest of tourist elbows. Unless we—you and I—go at dawn. Otherwise, we'll be on the quieter side of the hill—la butte, as the locals call it.

Letters, dear buddy, will come when the spirit moves me. I’ll try to capture the essence of place, but economically: a street corner, a charming—or otherwise—waiter, a garden, a meal, the view from inside a Paris jail. Did I ever tell you about my run-in with the Paris gendarmerie on my first trip to Paris? Long story. Maybe next time.

Australia is still outside my window. But France—and Guangzhou—have set up camp in my imagination.

Your first epistle may well be a Letter from China.

Until Saturday, buddy, I wait you.