My Luggage was in Paris

On airports, uncertainty, and learning to trust myself

My luggage was in Paris. I was in Dakar.

The horn buzzed loudly and the hum of the baggage carousel started. The conveyor belt lurched forward and the suitcases—colorful sets, plain black ones, large boxes—began passing through the black rubber flaps. I stood among the crowd, patiently looking for my small gray and brown suitcase. The one I carried past the check-in desk back in Washington DC. The one I asked the desk agent to gate check for me.

I turned on my phone, keeping one eye turned toward the conveyor belt. I opened Outlook—3 a.m. back home—nothing to read. I started aimlessly scrolling videos. I looked up as a bag like mine passed by. Then I saw the look on another passenger’s face—her lips turned upward and eyes brighter—nope, not mine

As I waited, I shifted my weight one leg to the other, back and forth, back and forth, seemingly timed with the rhythm of some childhood jingle. The suitcases and boxes had thinned, the crowd dispersing as people found their bags.

After the crowd dispersed, I began to look earnestly for someone, anyone who could help me. Finding no one nearby, my eyes continued to scan the baggage area and finally settled on the service office. I hefted my backpack on my shoulders, picked up my tote, and began walking in the direction of the office. As I walked, I was already thinking: what do I have on me and what will I need? I ran through a mental inventory of the essentials. Change of clothes, check. Toothbrush and toothpaste, check. And then, helmet. I exhaled my breath and said a silent prayer, thank God, my trip won’t be a bust. Behind the large customer service window were desks piled high with papers, and groups of workers chatting amongst themselves.

After filing my claim, I glanced at the paper the clerk handed me, stuffed it into my shoulder bag, and walked through customs. A moment of oddness passed through me as I set my backpack and shoulder bag on the x-ray machine. Realizing I was a little late getting out to the waiting area, I hurriedly grabbed my bags from the machine and checked my phone for my driver’s location. As I walked out of the airport hall, I was taken back three years to another airport hall, this one in Iceland, after my first transatlantic flight.

The overnight flight landed in Reykjavík as the sun rose. Still drowsy from no sleep, I slowly gathered my belongings and followed the crush of people off the plane. I followed them through the long hallways on the way to passport control, confident where they were taking me. As the immigration officer stamped my passport, I gave myself a pat on the back, and thought to myself, this isn’t so hard.

But just as quickly as the spring in my step became more noticeable, it was gone. The crowd turned toward baggage claim. I abruptly stopped and remembered I hadn’t checked bags. I hadn’t been paying attention to where I was going and next thing I knew, I was walking in circles. They weren’t metaphorical circles. They were literal circles around the airport. With each pass, I looked toward the customer service desk, hoping to see someone sitting there so they could tell me where to go. Nope, no one. Out the doors into the cool Icelandic air, looking for some telltale sign of my prearranged shuttle. Nothing there either. I looked at my watch, wondering when the customer service rep would be back. A large growl reminded me I hadn’t eaten since dinner, hours before.

I checked the overhead signs, trying to get oriented. But my brain couldn’t process what I was seeing, and I felt a sense of unease begin to rise up in me. After walking in circles for thirty minutes, I couldn’t even find my bus.

The longer I walked and the more steps I retraced, the clammier my hands got. My shoulders ached from carrying two backpacks. Asking myself, why did I think it was a good idea to carry backpacks instead of a suitcase. I knew why, I wanted to look like a seasoned traveler. The one who belongs on tour buses seeing volcanoes and geysers that shoot hundreds of feet into the air. The one who can find their bus or knows how to use their phone.

But that persona was about to come crashing down as my internal dialogue kicked into overdrive. Tracy, you have no business traveling to another country, let alone one on the other side of the ocean. Focus Tracy, you need to catch that bus, you have a tour scheduled. You can do this. I was willing to tell myself anything that would ensure I got on that bus.

A year later, I would find myself roaming another airport—this time in Bangkok.

This time I had dozens of stamps in my passport. I walked through the terminal, occasionally checking the signs to be sure I was still headed in the right direction. I quickly passed through immigration and grabbed my bags from the carousel.

Outside baggage claim, the airport was complete chaos. People were pushed elbow to elbow. Trolleys packed high with bags. I carefully navigated to the meeting point. I knew what I was looking for, Section B2. The email said: your name will be on a sign. As I entered the main hall, I could see hundreds of placards with names on them. Voices shouted out, “Taxi, taxi,” competing with the hum of the air conditioning and the overhead PA system.

I continued to walk along the narrow aisle, sidestepping small children and slow walkers, rolling my suitcases in front of me, scanning the signs for my name. But I didn’t see my name. I was tired and frustrated, and every time I walked past the automatic doors, the hot, humid air assaulted my skin. I pulled out my phone and looked for the familiar red circle, telling me I had a message. Nothing. I switched the Wi-Fi off and then on again. Maybe my phone hadn’t gotten the signal yet. I sent a message. I had to decide: wait where I was for the ping of a returned message or keep looking? I checked the time and looked again for the large B2 sign and slowly took in the sights and sounds of the great hall I was in. I don’t remember how it resolved but I do know that the panic that I felt in Iceland never got its energy.

Back in Dakar, as I walked out of the airport hall, toward my driver, I carried only my backpack and shoulder bag. He asked me, “Where are the rest of your bags?” I shrugged my shoulders, and said, “Looks like they were left behind in New York and are currently in Paris.”

In the car, I opened the airline app and sent a message, “Hello, when should I expect my bags in Dakar?” And then I closed my eyes.