A weekend itinerary built around restraint — what fits in the Rivella, and what doesn’t. Mornings, lunches, and the small streets that hold up best in winter.
There is a way of traveling that begins by deciding, very early, what you will not bring. I am not a minimalist by temperament — I overpack books, I overpack notebooks — but I have learned, slowly, that the size of the bag is the boundary that does the work for me. Decide the bag, and the trip decides itself.
For three days I carry the Rivella, which is a small bag by any honest measure. It will hold a paperback, a notebook, a folded shirt, a pair of socks, a phone, a wallet, and a charger. That is, more or less, the trip.
"The bag, when small enough, becomes a kind of editor."
Friday — arrive late, walk slow
I land in the afternoon and walk from the train station with the Rivella over one shoulder. There is a particular pleasure in arriving with little — every step lighter than it would otherwise be. I check in to a small pensione I have used for years, drop the bag on the bed, and take only the wallet and the notebook back out for the evening.
Dinner is at a place that does not take reservations. I walk there. I read for half an hour, alone, at the bar. Then I walk back, slower, the long way.
Saturday — the good morning
On Saturday I take the bag, the notebook, and a coat to the river. There is a bench I like there, in the shade of an oleander, where the water moves slowly and you can hear the small rasp of distant traffic without being in it. I sit for two hours. I write half a page. Then I walk back, on the other side, through the small streets that hold up best in winter.
Lunch is in the courtyard of a place that has been a courtyard for nine hundred years. The bag sits beside me. The waiter is patient. There is no hurry, anywhere.
In the late afternoon I find a bookshop and stay for an hour. I do not buy anything. I do not need to.
Sunday — pack early, leave the same
I pack the Rivella the same way I unpacked it. The shirt, folded. The notebook, on top. The book, in the front pocket. There is something quiet about leaving a place with the same bag you came with — the bag has, in a sense, kept a promise.
On the train home I read for two hours and watch the light come down through the window onto the strap. The leather is slightly darker than it was on Friday. It will not always be like this — but for a weekend, it has been enough.
