Packing for four and a half months sounds formidable, yet the physical bulk barely changes. One packs for seven days. The calendar stretches into spring, but the luggage volume remains stubbornly similar. It took years to realize that cheap clothes can be found everywhere. A fresh T-shirt or replacement underwear is the only souvenir that makes practical sense nowadays.
The upcoming departure brings an unfamiliar atmospheric wrinkle. Typically, our winter migrations transition directly from autumn chill to equatorial heat. This crossing demands patience. Five nights in Southampton, England precede boarding, followed by a run south into the Mediterranean to collect passengers in Marseille and Barcelona. Clearing the Strait of Gibraltar and passing the Canary Islands on our course toward Brazil will take several more weeks.
Sweatshirts and even gloves make an uncharacteristic appearance. They share tight quarters with short-sleeved shirts, shorts, sandals, and umbrellas for tropical rain. My Alain Delon case accepts the extra layers without complaint. We each travel with one suitcase and a backpack, which is easily a large enough kit to live out of for a full year. Our travel differs from our youthful exploration in that prescription medicines, a blood pressure monitor, and wires for electronic devices now demand their requisite square centimeters in the 2020s. The wanderlust remains exactly the same.