I once saw a tiny lady who appeared to be well into her sixties, skin bronzed to perfection, wearing a beige, velour pant-suit, pulling a four-car train of floral print luggage on the way to Gate B34. She towed this freight with the zeal of a woman half her age and twice her size, tromping along as if she were on a treadmill set at the level just below running.

In the midst of spotting such a rare marvel, I got to thinking: Why is it that some people insist on packing their entire three-level house for a mere two-week get-away, while others are like my brother, who, no matter where I meet him in the world, has only his tennis racket in its cover and guitar with its case, both stuffed with a few essentials: socks, underwear, swim trunks, and khaki Chinos?

Then there’s Dawson. A legend amongst my globe-trotting friends, he often travels to anywhere in the world with nothing but the clothes he’s wearing and a credit card.

Amazing, I know.

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