At the end of the first week of my trip to London, I took a train up to Derby to spend some time with a friend. My red suitcase was very heavy by this point, not only with the souvenirs that I had bought so far, but also two pair of Merrell shoes for my friend’s husband (they’re MUCH cheaper here in the U.S.) and a big coffee-table book on cowgirls that I had bought at the Autry Museum for her. My suitcase couldn’t have been heavier if I had loaded it up with rocks. In addition, being the writer and photographer that I like to think I am, I also had a laptop AND my Canon Rebel with an extra zoom lens in a smaller carry-on suitcase. Oh, and the books that I had bought at the marvelous used book store the day before.

I wasn’t worried about handling all this baggage, though. I would only have to deal with it once I got out of the cab at the train station until I got on the train. But I should’ve known that it wouldn’t be so easy.

Let me backtrack a little. I got a cab from the hotel to take me to the London St. Pancras Railway Station. What is it about London cab drivers that make them the friendliest ever? On the way, I mentioned that I was surprised that my travel agent had booked me for a train out of St. Pancras rather than Victoria, which seemed to be closer to my hotel. He said, “Ah. It depends on the destination. You’re going to Derby? Then you have to leave out of St. Pancras. If you were going someplace else, say Brighton, you’d have to leave out of Victoria.” Food for thought for you who are planning to go away for a few days while you’re in town.

Anyway, St. Pancras Station is very impressive. Recently remodeled, it is gorgeous with plenty of shops to stop into while waiting for your train. I grabbed a coffee and a piece of lemon cake and then headed up to the platform. Oh, and guess what – I bought another book.

It had been years – decades even – since I had ridden a train for anything other than short commutes, but I felt as if I had the whole thing in hand. On the platform, there were about 30 to 40 people waiting in front of the turnstiles. The group included three tall young men dressed as Teletubbies – yellow, green and red – but no one seemed to be too perturbed by their impersonations. Most people looked at them and smiled politely but did not laugh or point. Such polite English people they were.

Once they opened the turnstile for our train, it was a mad dash between me and the others to get to the cars. Or I should say, a dash for them, a trundle for me with my two suitcases.

The first several cars of the train were First Class seating, but from what I assumed, everything else was fair game. I felt pretty good about things when I found the first car that didn’t say First Class. I found it surprising that not everyone was jumping on the same car as me – most of them were still headed down to the end of the train. I hauled up my suitcase and started down the aisle.

Except the aisle was extremely narrow, and I was having a hard time pushing one suitcase ahead of me and pulling one behind and not bumping into other seats or people’s knees. I found a seat and pulled my little carry-on onto the seat. My big suitcase was still in the aisle. Several people stood patiently behind me, waiting for me to figure out what to do with my suitcase. I hurriedly pulled it in as close as I could so they could go ahead and move down the aisle, and generously waved my hand to signal to them that they could move on now.

“You’re in my seat,” the woman behind me said. “This is a reserved seat.” She said it almost apologetically, knowing my predicament with the suitcase from hell.

Huh? I looked up at the little screen above the window. Sure enough, it showed that Seats A and B were reserved. I felt my face getting hot as I realized that everyone behind me was waiting for me to hurry up and get the hell out of the way so they could get to their seats.

I started to push on down the aisle. ALL of the seats were reserved. What the hell? I thought reserved seats were only in First Class. This meant that not only would I’d have to navigate the aisle with this monstrosity, I’d have to find a way to get from one car to the next, to the next, until God knows when I’d get to a place where the seats were free. No wonder all those people were heading down to the end of the train.

“Here, I think there are some seats in the next car ahead,” one of the Teletubbies said. “Let me help you.”

He expertly grabbed my suitcase and pushed it ahead and I dutifully followed. Sure enough, there were seats in the next car that were free. Mr. Yellow Teletubby heaved my suitcase into the tiny shelving at the back of the car and I heaved myself into a seat.

I’ve never been so grateful to have the help of a children’s television icon.

I’ve always been guilty of over packing and at the end of every trip I swear that I will never, ever pack as much again. Of course, by the time the next trip comes around, the difficulties I had are a distant memory. And as is my habit, I will once again wait until the last minute and then, in a panic, throw everything I have into the suitcase the night before the trip.

Is there such a thing as a Personal Trainer for Suitcase-Packing? If not, there should be.