Three Random Things Always in A Professional Traveler’s Suitcase (You’ll Never Guess Why)

When you work in aviation, the excitement and allure of travel dull much faster than the pilot and flight attendant influencers might have you believe. Sleeping more nights in hotel beds (even with the most luxurious thread count) than your bed gets old. Homesickness settles in. The first time I felt this hard was last summer when flight cancellations left me stuck in Jersey without my two suitcases.

 After three weeks away from home, I had enough time before my next work trip to Europe to return to my home in Florida, lay on the beach, repack, and then return to Jersey before launching across the Atlantic. Somehow, United Airlines couldn’t accommodate my ticket to Florida but had no problem sending all my belongings on a rendezvous to Houston. Laying on my Weehawken, NJ hotel bed in my only clothing, I cried. I wasn’t getting my suitcases back before leaving for Europe, so I had the task of creating a new mini wardrobe from scratch. Nothing in my lost luggage was irreplaceable, but I was despondent. Why are you so upset over things, Claire? Because they were MY things.  

When sleeping in weird beds every night, you need familiars about you to feel good.  That’s why I always pack a few chosen items to help me maintain my home routines, feel comfortable, and create moments of self-care while on the road (which are sooo necessary because this job ain’t all poppin’ champagne and fab layovers in the South of France). I realized I didn’t need my “stuff,” but I needed three essential things.   

Here’s my packing list:

Protein Powder

I’ve talked before about how protein is one of the core components of my holy trinity for staying healthy while traveling. With all its health benefits, this delightful macronutrient has more than earned its place in my suitcase. But protein is for more than just nutrition. It can be an ass-saver, especially when traveling internationally, like once in Tel Aviv.

My crew and I arrived in the wee hours of a Saturday morning at Ben Gurion. I was exhausted from being awake for who knows how many hours on the flight over. A fun bonus adding to my weariness was the start of a head cold. Once in my hotel, I slept well until the next afternoon, when the grumbling of my hollow stomach became as obnoxious as an alarm clock blaring “EEEE, EEEE, EEEE.” I scanned the room service menu on the TV. “Ew, what?” I grumbled. All the dishes were cold and meatless, except a few smoked salmon options (I can’t with smoked salmon. I’ve served it far too much on jets, and I may need therapy to recover from the horror of watching people hork slimy slabs of marine life down like Gollum chomping into a live fish in Lord of The Rings). I was confused and irritated, but then I remembered the day: Saturday, which meant it was Shabbat, so there was no cooking until sunset. 

Since I was sick, my body needed protein. Some cucumber salad, tabbouleh, and hummus wouldn’t do the trick. Protein powder to the rescue! I didn’t have the most delicious meal, but I gave my body what it needed to heal and rest. 

Even if you’re in a country where Shabbat ain’t a thing, other factors can make it difficult to find a meal. Like your sleep being majorly fucked from travel. You might have a sleep schedule incompatible with the hotel breakfast hours or local restaurants. I often find my hunger cues get jacked up when I’m traveling. I don’t feel as hungry, so I won’t eat for long periods. Next thing I know, it’s eleven p.m., everything is closed, and I’m starving. Mixing up a little midnight protein slurry in my hotel room has been my salvation many a time.

I will not travel anywhere without protein.

Feminine care products

The importance of always having my preferred lady supplies at hand was something I learned the hard way. Buying tampons is weird in Europe. In some countries, feminine care products are kept behind the pharmacy counter. I’m already feeling vulnerable navigating language barriers and figuring out if I need euros or can use a credit card at the village store. This takes time for an already time-sensitive issue. My panties are in danger of extra rouge at any moment. I don’t want the additional step of telling a stranger it’s my shark week. Luckily, I’ve only encountered female pharmacists while abroad. Asking a fellow woman for help in this time of need feels way better than requesting lady cotton wands from a Guillermo or Mario. But… just because it’s girl-to-girl doesn’t mean things won’t get awkward.

“What size, miss?” the female pharmacist asked. I was standing at a counter in a pharmacy in Beja, Portugal, dripping with sweat from walking half a mile on cobblestones in late July. The question itself wasn’t strange. After all, tampons come in different sizes based on your current strength. However, the way she asked the question made me pause. Her emphasis on “size” conveyed that she needed to know a delicate and intimate detail about me. 

“Size?” I furrowed my brows. “Like, my size?” My eyes widened, my eyebrows raised, and my shoulders hunched protectively as we broached this sensitive topic.

“Yes.” She nodded, eyes big.

Oh my God. She’s asking how big my vagina is. I know my pant size, shoe size, dress measurements, and many other metrics about my body, but the dimensions of my lady part were a mystery. I stared at her, my face full of concern like she had asked for my left kidney. My brain scanned through the Rolodex of compliments from past lovers for a helpful clue. Maybe that’s just a thing guys say to any woman they sleep with? The growing silence became more palpable the longer I pondered her question. 

Then, the words of my old primary doctor came to mind. I saw Doctor Nan every year for a decade for my annual check-up before I moved to Florida. She was a weird lady and had an obnoxious habit of making peculiar observations about my body. I’m sure all doctors do that, but she said them out loud. She would tell me things like I had “funny earlobes,” like her brother, who hated his earlobes so much he got surgery to fix them. I spent the next two months staring at my earlobes every time I looked in the mirror, trying to figure out what the fuck was wrong with my ears. The following year, she told me because of the shape of my ribcage, my lungs had reduced functional capacity, so I would never be an Olympic runner. Every time I got winded working out, I cursed my too-tiny lungs. Her casual musings of my physic always gave me a mini complex but standing in front of a Portugese pharmacist who needed to know the size of my vag, one of Doctor Nan’s insights came to mind: “Your cervix is long and narrow, just like you.”

“Small!” The word flew out of my mouth. The pharmacist eyed me up and down. I felt judged by her eyes, like they were saying, “You stupid American with your big fat pussy!”  I straightened my shoulders and stood up taller. “I’m a small,” I repeated. 

“Oookay.” She turned to the back to get my tampons. The smalls worked just fine, thank yeeeew very much. 

The inconvenience and judgment are part of the issue, but the bigger problem is that European tampons are the worst. I’ve never encountered a European tampon with an applicator that was worth a damn. They basically give you a push pop without the pushy thing to get the pop up. Getting the item in place feels more like placing stitches or ripping a Band-Aid off. Beyond obnoxious. And the discomfort doesn’t stop once in place. Whatever cotton they’re using in the E.U. is the driest, grittiest, most terrible cotton on the face of the planet. I know the purpose of a tampon’s job is to absorb, but these European menses mops take their vocation way too seriously. They suck the life out of a uterus, transforming it from a lush, fertile oasis to a barren, parched desert. Even though Satan’s cotton fingers have dehydrated my inner alter, they’re just as uncomfortable on the way out as on the way in. 

After experiencing the fun adventures of being a lady in Croatia, Italy, Portugal, and Spain, I always bring the made in the U.S. of A supplies I know work best for me, regardless of what time of the month it is.    

Sheet face masks

Almost every task of a flight attendant is done on the behalf of another person. On the surface, I’m chilling in London, filling my time by spending hours on a walkabout through Harrod’s, picking up little trinkets from the floors of designer goodies, and sampling yummy treats in the food hall. However, my thoughts aren’t the same as other tourists. Instead of finding goodies to bring family and friends, I think…

Ooo! These caviar sets will be perfect for the jet. 

The Mrs would love this chocolate! I’ll grab some.

Even though I’m not on the jet, I’m on the jet. I focus on the next flight and what I can do for passengers and pilots. This is part of the emotional labor of a flight attendant — putting others before you. 

Enter sheet face masks.

You might not expect a slimy sheet of cotton slathered in serums, essences, and moisturizers to be a powerful advocate for your self-worth, but damn, are they effective! Sometimes, after a day of sightseeing and exploring with my constant companion, ruminations on others’ needs (we call him Roon, for short), I return to my hotel feeling lost and wanting. I forget what I need, spending all my mental exertion on others. Unsure what to do with myself, I meander to the bathroom to fuss with my toiletries, and there it is! A face mask. Once on my face, the essential oils and vitamins seep beyond my skin and into my brain. And I remember: I’m Claire! I have needs, wants, and desires, and I’m worthy of having all those met.   

What a fucking relief it is to be reminded the most important person in my life is me, and I can put myself first no matter what else is going on or where I am in the world. 

Face masks are ALWAYS in the suitcase. 

My packing list is very Claire-specific. However, I know the desire beyond my must-haves is common to all of us — feeling like yourself. They say, “No matter where you go, there you are.” But you get disconnected from yourself when your travel makes you feel more lost than found, which is both the beauty and challenge of travel. Luckily, just a few portable pillars of your daily life are all it takes to keep doing you, boo!