You Say, "Overkill." I say, "Nairobi and Johannesburg airports."

"But Kristin," you might ask, "wasn't the suitcase already locked and isn't a spiffy, darn near impenetrable yet subtly stylish Samsonite suitcase?"

Funny story behind that one. It wasn't locked. The night before my flight to Cameroon I was busy doing standard "night before long trip" stuff. But I was also cleaning the house and cooking meals for the visiting FAO who would be staying at our casa while we were away. (She canceled at the last minute and is a truly lovely person so I'll probably forgive her someday.) Anyway, I stayed up all night working. This will surprise none you who have lived with me or seen me 10 minutes before a dinner party. I like things to be just so.

What I neglected to do was to check the suitcase keys in the actual suitcase. Turns out I had the wrong set and did not realize this until my ride showed up 2 HOURS EARLY to take me to the airport. He had another rider with an earlier flight and could I be ready to go right now because the traffic would be just horrible and we would both miss our flights if I took any longer. I think I went through all five stages of grief right then and there, taking just a little extra time for Anger and Bargaining.

So I ran upstairs, tried to lock my suitcase, discovered the problem, ran all over the house looking for the other set because there wasn't time to switch suitcases. Breakfast dishes were abandoned in the sink. The beautifully written note I prepared for our house guest remained unsigned and without the phone number of the Embassy Point of Contact I meant to add. It is truly amazing that the house didn't collapse in the face of all this chaos. Wait, part of it did collapse - but that's another entry.

No keys, no hints, nada. I gave up and lifted my suitcase, not realizing that in not locking it I also had not shut it completely. And guess what... it opened and clothes spilled onto my floor.

At this point I probably screamed something not suitable for family ears. Suffice to say I was somewhat taken aback and expressed appropriate disbelief and frustration. Loudly.

I stuffed everything back into the suitcase, closed it, latched it, dragged it down the stairs and out to the car. At the airport I had it shrink wrapped and hoped for the best.

(Side note: it wasn't just my stuff in there btw. Lance was limited in his earlier suitcase weight so I was bringing a considerable amount of his clothing for an important conference. It was all neatly folded and packed until it fell all over the floor. You wouldn't think things like that would happen in real life. Turns out they do.)

The luggage arrived safely and I had it wrapped again for our trip from Cameroon to Senegal. No one knew if there was a wrapping service at the Senegal airport so I improvised. What you are seeing above is my suitcase, wrapped in shopping bags, wrapped with packing tape. You might be able to make out my name and "Gaborone, Botswana" too just so the thieves would know they were getting female clothing from a warm climate. Actually, it was more like a good 75 yards of totally awesome West African Fabric since I was wearing several layers of clothing to allow for more fabric in the suitcase. Don't even ask how heavy my carry-on was.

So that's the story behind my suitcase. It made all the flights that I did and for that I am eternally grateful. One last postscript. When Lance and I were at the airport, he noticed that more than half of the bags going to South African Air planes were similarly wrapped whereas bags going elsewhere were not. We few, we happy few, we band of Johannesburg-bound travelers. We know what's overkill and what's necessary to make something look like too much trouble to steal.