In which travel broadens the mind. And the luggage...

There are certain things one anticipates when taking a holiday with one’s best mate, and when one’s best mate is Best Mate, these include a frighteningly well-stocked case and German-like efficiency in organisation.

“Everything in my folder,” she said gleefully, waving a plastic file at me as we met at the airport at obscene o’clock, “is filed in the chronological order in which we’ll need it. And I have factor 25, factor 30, aftersun, facial aftersun, bug repellent, an Italian grammar book, a change of clothes in my hand-luggage…” She visibly ticked things off on a mental checklist. “Oh, and all the miniatures of bathroom equipment are correctly labelled.”

This, I expect. This is why I travel with her. Me – I’m much more Zen. I find that the things one generally tends to need will be around somewhere*. Yes, the überorganisation I’d anticipated. And, to a certain degree, I’d anticipated the Roman weather: my case bulged with cotton vest tops, linen trousers and flip-flops. I’d even predicted the extent to which we’d be relaxing and packed not one, but two large novels.

However, what I didn’t predict, but possibly should have done, was that the online description of our accommodation during our mid-sojourn trip to Naples wasn’t entirely accurate. I should really be travel-savvy enough to know that “clean, quiet and safe” actually means “only half the rubbish in downtown Naples; so far off the beaten track that you’ll be faced with unending stares from the locals who’re wondering what the Manolo you’re doing in this godforsaken slum; and so safe that people from neighbouring towns will pull a face and warn against ‘the crimes’.” Don’t get me started on the breakfast.

And there were several more unforeseen occurrences before our time was up.

“Look over there,” I hissed at BM, pointing to a group posing for photos in the Colosseum. It had taken me a few moments to put my finger on what was so odd about the situation. “I didn’t realise that the Amish wear trainers!”

“Huh,” BM shrugged, snapping away. “I didn’t realise they took 14-hour flights halfway around the world.”

But amidst even the Vatican police’s Lamborghini golf carts; the ease of sun-burning one’s scalp whilst lounging about in a spa on Ischia; and our Roman hotelier’s policy of assigned seating at the breakfast table (“you,” she forced some poor young Brit halfway round the table towards BM and me, “you sit here. These Mademoiselles – they are bellissima. You think they are, yes? You sit here”) – none of which was unsurprising, nothing was going to surpass the level of horrified shock I had experienced immediately upon arrival from Britain.

“Ooh, are these our bags?” BM said, pleasantly surprised as we wandered towards baggage reclaim at Ciampino.

“Can’t be,” I said, rummaging around in my bag, attempting to find somewhere safe yet memorable to put my passport. “Mine are, without fail, last.”

But this time, that wasn’t the case. Which was actually a great pity, given that it meant everyone in Arrivals was there to witness the advent of my bag on the conveyor belt: one zip open, and several pairs of black and frilly French pants strewn about the vicinity.

Possibly not what the tabloid press entirely has in mind when complaining about the prevalence of young women flashing their knickers to all and sundry whilst on holiday. But at the moment, I’m apparently all about the unexpected.

*probably because I choose to travel with BM if I think about it.