Some lessons need to be learned the hard way.
And some lessons need to be learned the hardest way.
Learning that the stove is hot? That’s a lesson learned the hard way. Learning that it’s better to test the temperature of the pool before jumping in? Hard way. Learning that the golf course will give away your tee time if you show up late? Hard way.
But learning the baggage weight limits of a certain transatlantic airline are firm and unyielding — even for frequent fliers, and even for oversized baggage — in front of an increasingly impatient baggage line of a few-hundred people in terminal 2 of Paris’ Charles de Gaulle airport? That, my friends, is a lesson learned the hardest way.
I learned this most painful lesson precisely 12 months ago, — as I stood before a golf bag that didn’t seem to me very overweight at all — and began deconstructing it.
As I stood before the Parisian gate agent responsible for the deconstruction, I learned that many of the things I had allowed myself to believe about transatlantic air travel were, in fact, lies.
It did not matter that my golf bag weighed certainly less than 55 pounds, and very likely less than 50. It did not matter that I had used it for the altogether good and dignified purpose of playing golf in two European countries in the hopes of eventually reporting on their worthiness as destinations for a golf audience. It did not matter that my bag was being loaded into the belly of a Boeing 777 that weighed approximately 300,000 pounds, was nearly a football field long, and featured two enormous GE9X jet engines that would spend the duration of my flight inhaling the air volume of a two-bedroom house every second.
And, if the unsympathetic eyes of the gate agent were any indication, it certainly did not matter that my marginally overweight golf bag would cause me spectacular personal discomfort, stress and embarrassment to rectify in front of a group of increasingly frustrated French travelers.
No, no, sir. The options were to pay the $150 baggage fee or figure it out, no matter how much agony it took. And for the gate agent, the agony might have actually been a perk.
According to the rules, I was less than a kilo overweight. And, according to my infinite American ignorance, a kilo weighed somewhere between … one and a hundred pounds. What was the conversion again? I asked.
“Ze conversion is … you should empty ze bag,” The gate agent said, wearing the faintest of grins.
With my cheeks a crimson mix of embarrassment and rage, I heeded his order. Everything that wasn’t golf clubs was quickly discarded from my golf bag. Clothing was shoved into the nooks and crannies of my roller bag. Gadgets and gizmos I had used to film golf courses were jammed into my backpack. Books were tossed into a tote bag. Food was thrown away.
After what felt like an eternity, the work was complete. I had reapportioned the bag to the exacting standards of the airline. I was under the baggage limit. The gate attendant looked mildly disappointed, but I was indignant. As I stood panting a few steps away from the luggage line, I turned to my fiancee, Jamie, and growled out a promise.
“I will never … ever … do that again.”
Eleven months and two weeks later, I faced my chance to make things right. It was the morning of my departure for the 154th Open Championship at Royal Birkdale. The beginning of another European golf adventure that would feature journeys to two of the best tracks in all of England: Royal Lytham and another course named Southport and Ainsdale.
As I got ready to leave, I pulled up the letter I’d written to myself from the Paris airport the previous July. It read like a hostage letter — which I suppose it was.
RULES FOR NEXT YEAR’S OPEN CHAMPIONSHIP:
- Minimum 3-4 pairs of pants
- 3 versatile polos
- An insulated, waterproof jacket
And then, in all-caps, the item I’d best not forget.
- NO! MORE! THAN! A HALF-SET!!! OF GOLF CLUBS!
I’d heard from golf reporters in the past about the beauty of the half-set. I’d learned that it was a great way to keep the game feeling creative and thought-provoking. That it was an intellectually stimulating way of challenging yourself on the golf course (not that I needed much help in that category). That it was a love letter back to golf at its simplest and most essential.
These things might be true, but I knew a half-set was also something else: Roughly half the weight in my golf bag. By packing only a handful of clubs, I could load up on the goodies in my golf travel bag at little personal cost … and still have room left for souvenirs. What a novel concept!
I left for the airport on the evening of my great experiment and felt good. I arrived at Royal Lytham in England and felt great. The golf was exciting and decidedly more creative, navigating “soft” swings and “hard” swings and bunts and squibs and punches and knucklers. I didn’t miss a single club I’d left behind, and hell, I felt like I played better without all the (literal) baggage.
But the real battle was still looming. The one that would come in approximately two weeks’ time, when I departed from Charles de Gaulle airport a second time and faced my date with destiny.
This time through the airport things wouldn’t be as “easy” as they’d been last time — when I was souvenir-free and carrying only the items on my person. This time I’d be carrying a small arsenal of goodies and gifts purchased for friends and loved ones. This time my golf bag would have most of my clothes, thanks to a smaller-than-usual carry-on bag. This time I’d see if my efforts had been worth the effort.
As I unloaded my luggage from the taxi out front of the same terminal at CDG, I felt a twinge of doubt. The bag felt heavy. It hadn’t felt heavy at any point during the trip. Had I over-packed it? Was I losing my mind?
I stepped into the baggage line and weighed my options. If things went south, I could certainly find some more space in my roller bag. Some stuff would have to go, but nothing I was that attached to. I could make it work.
At long last, the gate agent waved me over. It was time for my date with destiny.
I put the bag on the scale, handed over my passport and waited for the verdict.
The gate agent looked over the counter, stone-faced.
“You know ze deal?”
My heart sank. I’d done it again.
“Yes, I know. 23 kilos max. How much do I have to remove?”
The gate agent looked back quizzically.
“Nothing. I am talking about ze oversized luggage. Take it over there.”
And then the bag was back in my hands, tagged and ready for its journey back to the United States.
I hardly processed what happened until after the bag had been delivered to the oversized area and sent on its way. But then, as I turned for security, it hit me.
I was underweight and ready to fly. And now I’m never flying with a full set of golf clubs again.
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