by Isabella Clarke
I bought my Samsonite suitcase on impulse. It was a gloomy Tuesday, and I had just quit my job. Not because I had another one lined up — I didn’t — but because I had realized I was living someone else’s version of success. The suitcase was cherry red, hard-shell, and unapologetically bold. It felt like a commitment to a life I hadn’t dared to live yet.
Three days later, I was on a plane to Lisbon. No return ticket, no hotel booked — just the Samsonite and a heart racing from equal parts fear and excitement. That suitcase became my mobile home. In it: two dresses, a book I never finished, too many chargers, and a little notebook titled “Figure it out.”
Portugal was my first stop, but not my last. I danced barefoot at a beach wedding in Croatia (even though I didn’t know the couple), got hopelessly lost in the Marrakech medina, and cried on a balcony in Athens after a call from home. But that suitcase — scratched, sun-faded, and now with a wobbly wheel — was always there. Like a quiet witness to every misstep, every leap, and every night I thought, “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
In Florence, I met someone. He offered to carry my suitcase up a steep cobblestone alley. It was the most romantic gesture I’d ever received. We didn’t last, but the memory of that moment — the weight shared, the laughter — stayed.
Now I’m home, in a different city, in a different life. The suitcase stands in the corner of my small flat like a war hero: battered but proud. I don’t use it often, but I never hide it. Because it reminds me of the time I chose myself.
I didn’t just travel with Samsonite.
I escaped, unraveled, rebuilt — with it beside me every step of the way.
