LESS IS MORE…

…ON THE ROAD, hiking the Bavarian Alps.

Onion-domed church in the Bavarian Alps

Dear Readers, thanks for your warm reactions to Trudi’s life philosophy. Today’s hike was from Paterzell to Peiting, two more villages no one has ever heard of outside of Bavaria, but charming nonetheless. The landscapes were pure Hollywood backdrops and more than made up for the lost luggage.

I’ve added a BUY ME A COFFEE button but ignore the prompts! Even a dollar (ja, I know, a dollar coffee doesn’t exist) counts as appreciation for the story. I appreciate you all so much.

LESS IS MORE

Mies van der Rohe, the famous modern architect, said it best:

Less is more.

During a hike, there were some items I required without question: a Braun shaver, an electric toothbrush, fresh socks, and moleskin. Nothing could take the place of these items. Hemingway needed his bottle of scotch, and I needed my moleskin.

“No, sir,” the receptionist said when I arrived at the Hotel Paterzell. “Your luggage has not arrived.” My non-negotiable items were missing. She looked a bit sheepish and added, “I’m sorry. Maybe it’ll come soon.”

Less was looking more like nothing. I was stymied. I knew I could not continue the hike without my stuff, just as Hemingway couldn’t continue without his booze.

I glanced down at myself—a dirtbag on two legs. I wore more dust than Cairo on a windy day. I couldn’t even recognize the color of my hiking boots. Were they blue? Black? Indeterminate at best.

“I just walked here from Diessen. In all the time it took me to hike fifteen Alpine miles and climb 4,000 feet, the transport company couldn’t drive my luggage here?” She shrugged, not knowing what to say. I felt bad because she had nothing to do with the mess.

“They have until 5 p.m., if that helps,” she said.

I apologized and took my room key.

That one small rollaboard is the center of my life when I’ve finished a day’s hike from village to village. All I wanted was a hot shower, a cold beer, a good dinner, and a comfy bed. The few extra clothes I’d brought were in the missing bag…along with the shaver, toothbrush, fresh socks, and moleskin.

I’m a miserly packer. I can travel for a month out of a small bag—but to do that, I have to have the bag. I walked down the hall to my room, trailing clouds of dust and discoloring the carpet.

I wanted to take off the dirt-covered socks, shirt, and pants, put them in a pile, and torch the lot.

The phone rang.

“Sir, this is the front desk. I’ve called the transport company, and they have no idea where your luggage is. They’ll start looking in the morning.”

The morning?!

She hung up quickly, before the volcano could erupt through the phone. I brooded. I can be a good brooder when I set my mind to it.

In the back of my head, a nasty voice crept forward. How entitled are you? You’re hiking the Alps, you’re in a great hotel with a restaurant, and you’re complaining that poor little you didn’t get your precious stuff. I hated that voice. I hated it more because it was true.

I had six days left on the tour. I did an inventory. I had my backpack with ibuprofen and a rain jacket. Good start. I had sunglasses and my phone. Another positive. I didn’t really need pajamas. The shower had plenty of soap and hot water. And, if pushed, I could eat dinner in the dust-gray clothes and pretend I was a tramp.

I took the clothes to the balcony, shook them like a cat shakes a mouse, slipped back into them, and went to the front desk. Yes, they had shaving blades, nonelectric toothbrushes, and a tiny deodorant. Band-Aids would do in place of moleskin.

A big beer and half a roast pig later—it had been a long fifteen miles—I went to my room, filled the sink with hot water and some shampoo, and threw all the clothes in.

The water turned a light shade of black.

By the third or fourth rinse, it had cleared. I could even identify the colors. I wrung everything out, hung it all in the breeze on the balcony, and hoped it wouldn’t blow away.

In the morning, I put on crisp, dry clothes and went to breakfast, floating on a moment of realization. I didn’t need half of what I’d brought. Better yet, I could make do without it.

The receptionist approached my table with caution, but this time she didn’t hold her nose. “Sir, your luggage has arrived. It had been delivered to the wrong hotel.” She stepped back quickly.

I had my stuff back. I waited for the feeling of elation, but it didn’t come. That bag was crammed with clothes I didn’t need. I’d hauled them five thousand miles across the Atlantic for nothing. I had had all I wanted: a cold beer, a good dinner, a hot shower, a comfy bed, and clean clothes—and all without my luggage.

“That’s OK! I didn’t need all that crap anyway! Next time I’ll pack everything I need in a quart baggie!”

That’s what I wanted to say.

Instead, I thanked her, made sure it would be sent to the next hotel, and walked out into the sunshine to get back on the trail.

A quart bag might be underdoing it, I thought as I trekked along. I’ll use a gallon baggie.

Less may not be more, but it’s usually enough.

[IGNORE THE PROMPTS! $1 OR $2 IS FINE!!]