I have a pair of Travelling Pants. They are nothing like the pants immortalized in Ann Brashere's novel Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants, which were a pair of blue jeans you may recall fit each of 4 very differently-shaped young women perfectly, in a sexy and shapely way.
I suspect you could not find four women in the universe who would look sexy in my Travelling Pants. Shapely they are not, unless by shapely you mean makes a person look even more like a lollipop than usual. They are faded, stained khaki, of threadbare Tencel, with a wildly unattractive elastic and drawstring waist.
They are at least fourteen years old.
The prime--some might say only--virtue of my Travelling Pants is that they are the closest thing to pajama pants that aren't actually pajamas. They are comfortable. Always, everywhere. If you think that's not of primary importance when travelling, then you, gentle reader, have never flown coach class to Cape Town.
Last December, I wore the Travelling Pants for four straight days. There was a little problem of our luggage remaining in Paris while we flew on to Cairo. Sounds exotic, but the reality of three days touring in the hot desert then returning to dine in the upscale restaurant of the Four Seasons Hotel in the same pair of pants (not to mention shirt, socks and bra) was a trifling embarrassing. By the time the bags showed up I was tempted to throw the Travelling Pants into the Nile. But I didn't. What would I have worn on the flight home?
Today marks day two of the current run of Travelling Pants. I should have woken up this morning at my favorite hotel in the world, Cashel House, in Connemara, Ireland. Instead I woke up in Charlotte, NC, a city that had not been part of my itinerary at all. We were fortunate in that we have a good friend in Charlotte who picked us up last night, stopped at the store for some wine, and gave us beds, showers, and a boffo breakfast. Still I feel sorry for my husband. It's his birthday, and he's spending it in airports, wearing for the second day his Travelling Pants.
I suspect you could not find four women in the universe who would look sexy in my Travelling Pants. Shapely they are not, unless by shapely you mean makes a person look even more like a lollipop than usual. They are faded, stained khaki, of threadbare Tencel, with a wildly unattractive elastic and drawstring waist.
They are at least fourteen years old.
The prime--some might say only--virtue of my Travelling Pants is that they are the closest thing to pajama pants that aren't actually pajamas. They are comfortable. Always, everywhere. If you think that's not of primary importance when travelling, then you, gentle reader, have never flown coach class to Cape Town.
Last December, I wore the Travelling Pants for four straight days. There was a little problem of our luggage remaining in Paris while we flew on to Cairo. Sounds exotic, but the reality of three days touring in the hot desert then returning to dine in the upscale restaurant of the Four Seasons Hotel in the same pair of pants (not to mention shirt, socks and bra) was a trifling embarrassing. By the time the bags showed up I was tempted to throw the Travelling Pants into the Nile. But I didn't. What would I have worn on the flight home?
Today marks day two of the current run of Travelling Pants. I should have woken up this morning at my favorite hotel in the world, Cashel House, in Connemara, Ireland. Instead I woke up in Charlotte, NC, a city that had not been part of my itinerary at all. We were fortunate in that we have a good friend in Charlotte who picked us up last night, stopped at the store for some wine, and gave us beds, showers, and a boffo breakfast. Still I feel sorry for my husband. It's his birthday, and he's spending it in airports, wearing for the second day his Travelling Pants.
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