But consider instead, the diametric opposite: fill your bag with dirty clothes, wash them at your port of call -- a couple of times, even! -- and return home with a renewed buffer between you and the bottom of your underwear drawer. Now your vacation has carried forth, and rejuvenated your intimates.
Like my host in the Sunshine State, you might consider my plan an imposition, or at least, a tacky scheme. It’s both! But having explored the various alternatives, I can confidently say: toting sullied togs across the country, or around the world, is me living my best life. Take me as I am, people (and take my laundry, too).
How did I arrive at such a radical paradigm? My Brooklyn apartment is a great distance from the nearest laundromat, a small, grubby, cash-only establishment that closes on Sundays and occasionally returns things dirtier than they arrived. The second-nearest facility is twice as far, and just as inadequate. This being New York, and me being neither oil baron nor trustafarian, my flat has no washer/dryer of its own. Some buildings have communal coin-operated machines, sequestered in some dim stairwell landing or dank subterranean washroom; mine does not. Delivery services are predictably expensive and surprisingly inconvenient.