IN MY MANY years of travel, I’ve never subscribed to the policy of packing “tried-and-true basics to mix and match.” I follow my own heart: Pack three items that invariably serve me well on the road.
First off is a blue sequin dress. I bought it for $35 in a vintage store in Portland, Maine, back in the 1990s. The lining is silk—a shade of electric blue to match the sequins—and the label says Paris. This dress fits as though it had been made for me. Except for one thing: Zipping myself up is a challenge. Still, every time I put on my dress, I feel transported, wherever I am—freed briefly from the cloak of invisibility that women my age often seem to wear. When I’m in my little blue sequin number, it’s darned near impossible to write me off.
My Lucchese cowboy boots with tooled roses are next. Purchased 30 years ago, resoled twice, they are still going strong. At the time I found them in Austin, Texas, they seemed an extravagance—$800—more than I had ever paid for an item of clothing.
But once I’d slipped my feet into the boots, I understood their worth. When I put them on I feel powerful. I could be a country singer stepping up to the microphone at the Ryman Auditorium in Nashville. Wherever I wear them, women stop me on the street to ask where I got my boots.
The final piece in my travel triumvirate is a trim vintage jacket. Perfectly cut. Velvet. Leopard print. I can wear it with anything, so long as I steer clear of desserts and bread. I always know when I put it on that I’m two croissants away from trouble. I appreciate the reminder.
All three of these items share one quality: I’ve owned them for a long time. They are like old friends. They offer something valuable—a connection to every place I’ve ever been with them. Like official stamps on a passport page, they bring to mind memories of where I’ve been. More than that, the story of my life.
Like the night I walked the red carpet at a film festival with my well-loved second husband, Jim, who died six years ago. Or when a photographer in Budapest was so enamored of my boots he had me pose—reclining in the middle of a busy street until the red light turned green.
My handmade cowboy boots bring me back to the eve of my 43rd birthday, when I took a trip to pay a visit to a famous and powerful man decades older than me, who had courted me hard a full 25 years before, then hurt me worse than anyone ever had. I wasn’t wearing those boots when he dismissed me from his life, but I was wearing them, 25 years later, when I knocked on his door. The strength I felt to confront him that day no doubt came from within, but the boots surely helped.
Sometimes when I travel, these items provide an entree into a new world that embraces me and welcomes me to join it. Some years ago, for a cross-country promotional tour with many stops—a different city every night—I needed an outfit that, if it didn’t make me look like a movie star, would allow me to feel like one. One night in St. Louis, the tour coincided with the monthly live appearance of a beloved St. Louis native at a club close to where I’d spoken earlier that night, wearing The Dress. We are speaking of Chuck Berry.
They are like old friends. They offer something valuable—a connection to every place I’ve ever been with them.
The great rock ’n’ roller was in his late 80s at this point, and he may not have been singing on key, but he still knew how to dance. He was wearing a red, white and blue sequined jacket, with one of his daughters alongside him in a sequined dress not unlike mine, but red. When she spotted me in the crowd, she invited me to come up onstage and dance with her and her father. Surely it was my blue dress that inspired their invitation.
My three easy pieces don’t always make life easier on the road. By the end of that tour, the week of hotel meals (not to mention the barbecue in Kansas City) had taken effect. The task of zipping up the sequin dress was getting tougher. I hit on the idea of stretching it over a wastebasket padded with pillows in my hotel room. That helped and I could slide the zipper up again, and still breathe, though a second challenge—taking off my cowboy boots—had me lying on the floor with one leg in the air, wishing for a boot jack.
I’m writing this now from Paris, having been invited to begin a new book during a residency above the legendary Shakespeare and Co. In line with another travel commandment—travel light!—I brought my boots. I might spend much of my day at my desk, but at sunset, I want to walk along the Seine, or explore the Latin Quarter, and I’ll be wearing my rose boots. Wherever I go, people look at my feet. Then they meet my eyes and smile. I smile back.
Joyce Maynard’s most recent novel, published last month, is “The Bird Hotel” (Arcade)
