Lost Luggage: A Love Story (and a scathing indictment of baggage handling)

Right. So, the Travel Tribune asked me – *me*, Lena ‘Lyric’ Volkov, purveyor of existential dread and questionable life choices – to write about…luggage. Luggage. As if the hollow ache of displacement isn’t already adequately represented by the human heart. But fine. I’ve been staring at a carousel for three hours, so I’m qualified. It started, as all tragedies do, with a beige Samsonite. A perfectly unremarkable vessel for the detritus of a life. My friend, Beatrice (a performance artist specializing in competitive interpretive dance with houseplants), checked it in at JFK. It contained, amongst other vital items, her emotional support cactus, Bartholomew, and a collection of vintage postcards addressed to various ex-lovers. It did not arrive in Reykjavik. Now, Beatrice is convinced Bartholomew is living his best life, sipping glacial water and judging tourists. I suspect a more prosaic fate – a warehouse in Newark, perhaps, surrounded by orphaned suitcases and the ghosts of forgotten vacations. But the *loss*… the loss is profound. It’s a metaphor, people! For the fleeting nature of connection! For the inherent instability of all earthly possessions! For the fact that airlines clearly prioritize profit margins over the emotional wellbeing of plant-loving dancers! I’ve spent the last 72 hours attempting to file a claim. The automated voice on the phone sounds suspiciously like it’s weeping. The online form requires 47 fields, including ‘precise emotional state at time of baggage check-in.’ (I wrote ‘existential despair.’ It was rejected.) This isn’t about a suitcase. It’s about the void. It’s about the crushing realization that even our most carefully curated belongings are ultimately at the mercy of indifferent systems. It’s about Bartholomew. And honestly? It’s about the fact that I now have to write a poem about it. Send help. And maybe a cactus.