How to pack for a week in one small bag

I used to pack the way most people do, which is to say for a series of imaginary trips. There was the trip where things turned unexpectedly formal, the trip where it snowed in June, the trip where I took up running for the first time in a decade. None of those trips ever happened. The real trip, every time, involved a great deal of walking, a fair amount of sitting in cafés, and a bag heavier than my opinions.

It took years, and one memorable flight of stone steps in a hill town without taxis, to arrive at a better method. What follows is for a week away, somewhere with a sink and a mild-to-uncertain climate. Adjust for polar expeditions accordingly.

The bag decides

Start with the bag, not the list. Choose something small — a daypack or a soft shoulder bag that fits under a train seat and that you can carry up four flights of stairs without stopping to reconsider your life. Then let it be the limit. If it doesn’t fit, it doesn’t come. This sounds obvious. It is the rule everyone breaks first, usually by adding a second, smaller bag they insist does not count.

Soft sides beat hard ones; they forgive the last sweater. One big compartment beats eleven little ones, because pockets breed objects. If you can lift the packed bag comfortably with one hand, arm outstretched, you are about right.

Layers, not outfits

The trick to a week of clothes in a small bag is to stop thinking in outfits and start thinking in layers. Every piece should go with every other piece. In practice this means choosing two or three colors that agree with one another — navy, gray and one thing with a bit of rust in it, say — and leaving the rest at home.

• Two pairs of pants, or one pair and a skirt. Wear the heavier pair on the journey.
• Three tops that can be washed in a sink and dry overnight. Thin wool and light blends are best; heavy cotton takes a day and a half and smells faintly of regret.
• One warm layer, a sweater or fleece, that goes over everything.
• One light waterproof jacket that folds into its own pocket.
• Underwear and socks for three or four days, not seven. More on this below.
• One pair of comfortable walking shoes, worn on the way, plus something flat and light for evenings — or nothing else at all, if you are braver than I am.

Layering does the work extra clothes would otherwise do. Cold morning: everything on. Warm afternoon: the jacket comes off and goes into the bag, which, you will be pleased to find, has room for it.

What goes in, and in what order

Beyond clothes, the small bag rewards ruthlessness. Here is roughly what lives in mine, in the order it goes in.

1. Shoes and the warm layer first, at the bottom, the shoes in a cloth bag so they don’t introduce themselves to everything else.
2. Clothes rolled, not folded. Rolling doesn’t magically create space, but it keeps things from creasing and lets you see everything at a glance.
3. A small wash bag: toothbrush, a bar of soap that also serves as shampoo and laundry soap, and one tiny bottle of whatever you truly can’t do without. Solids over liquids, always.
4. Chargers and cables in a single pouch. One adapter. One. You have never needed a spare adapter.
5. A notebook, a pen and a paper map of wherever you are going, which weighs almost nothing and will outlast your phone battery.
6. A light scarf, which is a blanket on the train, a pillow on the bus, a sunshade at noon and, on one occasion in my life, a makeshift sack for a dozen apricots.
7. On top, anything you might need during the journey, so you aren’t unpacking in the aisle.

What stays out matters as much. No “just in case.” If you might need it, you can almost certainly buy it there, and buying a toothbrush in an unfamiliar pharmacy is a small adventure in itself.

Laundry in a sink

A week fits into three or four days of clothes because you wash as you go. It takes ten minutes in the evening, and once it becomes routine it is oddly pleasant — the traveler’s version of watering the plants.

Fill the sink with warm water and a rub of the bar soap. Wash socks, underwear and the day’s top, working them with your hands, then rinse in cold water until it runs clear. Now the important part: lay each piece flat on a dry towel, roll the towel up tightly, and kneel on it for a minute. This squeezes out far more water than wringing ever will. Hang everything over a chair back, a radiator or a length of string between two hooks, and by morning most of it will be dry. The rest can finish on the outside of your bag while you walk, a practice that marks you as either a serious traveler or someone who has given up, depending on who is looking.

The one luxury

After all this discipline, allow yourself one thing with no practical justification whatsoever. This is important. A trip packed purely for efficiency starts to feel like a business arrangement, and the one luxury is a small reminder that you are there for pleasure.

Mine changes. For a long time it was a heavy hardback I never finished. Lately it has been a small tin of good tea and a folding cup. A friend travels with a single linen pillowcase, which turns any rented bed, she says, into something nearer her own. Another carries a set of watercolors the size of a matchbox. It doesn’t matter what it is. It matters that it is chosen, and that there is only one.

Then close the bag, pick it up with one hand and walk once around the room. If you can do that without sighing, you are ready. If you can’t, open it again and start with whatever you packed in case things turned formal. They won’t.