The carry-on

Function over form?

We live in dire, dire times. Everything needs to be optimised, and every object needs to justify its existence. It’s got to be multi-functional, ergonomic, etc. And I reject this.

In most cases, I’ll defend beauty for its own sake. I’ve never once felt the need to apologise for a delicate, impractical silk dress, or a heavy vase that holds nothing, or a piece of art whose only job is to exist. Why justify a beautiful thing by its usefulness? I’d argue with anyone who tries to make me. The world is far too sterile when stripped down to mere utility; we need the sublime, the decorative and the unnecessary to remain human.

But transit doesn’t care about any of that. The cramped overhead bin of an Airbus and the long climb of a stalled escalator mock any such romanticism. So I have to negotiate between the person I wish to appear as and the physical load I can bear. In that negotiation, the carry-on is where I let function win.

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THE BAG

The bag is a Bellroy Classic Getaway (in black) that I took from my mother. Well, she gave it to me after I spent months watching her use it and treating it like a trusted accomplice. I observed how it managed weekend trips and was surprised at how much it could actually hold without ever looking bloated or losing its silhouette. I dropped endless hints about how I was going to buy one for myself until she finally smiled and gave me hers instead.

The rear sleeve swallows the laptop. Internal pockets act like tiny, organised rooms, keeping small things from dropping into the bottom. Then there are pop pockets for water bottles or an umbrella that collapses flat when empty, and a brilliant trolley sleeve pass-through that secures the bag over a roller handle when there’s more to carry.

But the most important thing is that I usually carry one bag, low-key for a short hop and capacious enough when the trip turns serious. That’s the range I need.

THE LAPTOP

The laptop is a 13-inch MacBook Air, which I ‘downgraded’ to on purpose. For years, I subscribed to the gospel that more power is better, dutifully hauling a 16-inch Pro around the world. It was a slab—a heavy one that demanded its own dedicated real estate along with its own heavy brick of a charger.

But the work I actually do in transit doesn’t need that kind of engine. The hardcore work happens at home on a bigger desktop, tied to a desk and a monitor. The Air is so thin, so weightless, I forget it’s in my bag. That’s an overstatement, but you get the idea.

THE CAMERA

The camera is a Canon R6 with a Sigma 50mm f1.4 lens. I find the fast 50 to be a sensible single lens to travel with. With a fixed focal length, there’s no zoom, so your feet have to do all the work. If you want a close-up, you might need to step into someone’s space; if you want context, you might need to step back into the street. I like that I’m forced to engage more actively with my surroundings.

Plus, the technical constraints yield a certain look. Everything this combination gives back has that signature fall-off—a thinness of focus where the subject is sharp and the background melts away into a creamy, impressionistic blur. That’s the look I like. It somewhat mimics the way human memory works. Not to get all poetic, but when I look back on a trip, I don’t always remember a place in crisp detail from edge to edge. I might remember a single thing while the rest blurs. So it’s an aesthetic choice that honours the fragment over the whole.

THE SMALL CASE

The Cuyana case (the small one in the travel case set) is the junk drawer of my mobile life. Gum. Mints. Vitamins. Paracetamol (because you never know, and the people who say you can buy it anywhere have clearly never needed it at the wrong hour in the wrong country).

I also have some hair ties, a hair clip and a Prequel SPF lip balm. And a lash curler, which is absolutely not a necessity, but it’s an instant antidote to flight fatigue, mechanically forcing my eyes to look more awake.

If I need to look a bit more put together when I land, I’ll add Jane Iredale’s mineral pressed powder. Long ago, I abandoned the delusion of travelling with a full makeup vanity, but this single compact is light, and it doesn’t spill pigment across my clothes (at least, I hope). A single sweep, and it erases the grey, exhausted sheen my face produces.

THE DEFECTION

Another small case for jewellery. Always. For any trip. So much for over-indexing on function over form.

While my clothes must be rolled and edited down to a strict palette, my jewellery case remains untouched by utility. None of it is totally practical, and it warrants constant, protective vigilance. But jewellery is the one thing that prevents a capsule wardrobe from feeling too much like a uniform.

I mentioned before that I’m against jewellery travel pouches that have all the slots and inserts and holes. I much prefer a simple trinket case where I can stash everything without all the fiddling. I was gifted a Smythson one for my birthday last year, and it lives in my bag for any last-minute swaps. Further, the interior is lined with a suede fabric, so nothing gets scratched.

THE SUNGLASSES

The sunglasses are Mr Leight, courtesy of my husband’s eyewear obsession. Larry Leight was the design force behind Oliver Peoples, the titan of luxury eyewear he eventually watched pass to Luxottica. The line he now makes with his son Garrett launched in 2017 and is handmade in Japan, with frames named after iconic boulevards and landmarks of Los Angeles.

Hex hinges and coil temples make for good, uncompromising details. They work well, shielding my eyes from the glare of high-altitude tarmac, and they’re also just pleasing to look at, made by people who have thought about almost nothing else but eyewear for 40 years.

THE DOCUMENTS

My passport, OCI and a cardholder. No cover needed for the passport, because covers are a faff. The number of times I’ve been asked to remove it at customs…

Besides, the Getaway’s various slots mean my documents live in one place and are within reach when I need them. My cardholder is equally lean, stripped down to two bank cards, an ID and whatever local currency can be folded flat.

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Everything has its place, and I have no room for anything else. Keep only what earns its spot, except for those few beautiful things.

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Thank you for reading The Other HAFH. I’ll catch you next week with an essay.

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