By Isabella Duarte
For years I travelled as if I were moving house. A big suitcase “just in case”, a toiletry bag the size of a beach tote, and the absolute certainty that at some point I would need three pairs of heels in a city made of cobblestones. I never did. What I did need, many times, was not to spend forty minutes in front of a baggage carousel watching everyone’s suitcase come out except mine.
So I reformed. Today I travel for ten days with one cabin bag and one handbag, and it isn’t an act of asceticism: it’s pure vanity. Arriving light, leaving the airport before everyone else, and never having to choose between my clothes and my dignity. But to get there you have to start with the boring part, which is where almost all of us fail: the measurements.
The fine print, centimetre by centimetre
Every airline has its own idea of what a carry-on is, and none of them asks for your opinion. These are the three I use most, according to their own websites:
- Air Canada: 55 x 40 x 23 cm, wheels and handles included, and no weight limit, as long as you can lift it into the overhead bin yourself. Plus a personal item of 43 x 33 x 16 cm.
- Iberia: 56 x 40 x 25 cm and up to 10 kg in Economy, plus a bag or backpack of 40 x 30 x 15 cm under the seat.
- Air France: 55 x 35 x 25 cm, and here’s the catch: the suitcase and the small bag (40 x 30 x 15 cm) together can’t go over 12 kg in Economy.
Do the maths and the suitcase that fits all three without arguing with anyone measures 55 x 35 x 23 cm. That’s mine. It’s a little narrower than you’d like, and that’s exactly why it works: it forces you to decide at home what you would otherwise decide in tears at the boarding gate.
One warning that would have spared me some grief: at Air Canada, Economy Basic fares bought since 3 January 2025 only include a personal item on flights within Canada and to the United States, Mexico, Central America and the Caribbean. If your ticket is Basic, your “carry-on” is, in fact, a handbag. Check before you pack, not after.
The most important litre of your life
The liquids rule is the one you know, but it’s worth reading it the way the security officer reads it. In Canada, the airport security authority (CATSA) asks for containers of 100 ml or less, all inside a single clear, resealable bag of no more than one litre. One bag per passenger. And watch what counts as a liquid: mascara, lip gloss, spray sunscreen and even peanut butter. I speak from other people’s experience, which is the best kind.
My solution is almost boring in its simplicity: anything that comes in solid form travels in solid form. Shampoo bar, solid perfume or a tiny atomiser, stick foundation. The litre bag is saved for what has no substitute: the serum, the eye cream and a 10 ml perfume that makes me feel I’ve landed in Paris even when I’m on a four-hour layover.
My ten-day method (and no, it isn’t rolling everything)
- A palette, not a wardrobe. I pick three colours that get along, say cream, navy and camel, and everything that goes in the suitcase has to go with everything else. If a piece only works with one other piece, it stays home.
- Four bottoms, six tops. Wide-leg trousers, a pair in a cool fabric, a midi skirt and jeans (which travel on me). On top, shirts and fine knits that dry overnight. Ten days aren’t ten outfits: they’re combinations.
- Two pairs of shoes, plus the ones you’re wearing. Immaculate white trainers, ballet flats or loafers and, worn on the plane, the heaviest boots. The bulkiest things always travel on you, like your coat.
- Fold what has structure, roll what doesn’t. Shirts and blazers get folded; T-shirts and knits, rolled, fill the gaps. It’s not religion, it’s geometry.
- Wash once, halfway through. On day five, the hotel laundry or a sink and a little soap. It’s the trick nobody admits to and the one that frees up the most space.
The handbag is the other half of the system. That’s where everything I don’t want to lose sight of goes: passport, medication, charger, power bank (which, by the way, must travel in the cabin and not in checked baggage, as CATSA reminds us), and a large cashmere scarf that doubles as a blanket, a wrap and an elegant excuse to sleep on the plane.
What really fits in a small suitcase
What I discovered by travelling light has nothing to do with clothes. When you carry little, you dress better, because you’ve already decided at home what suits you. You move faster, change plans without a second thought, and never ask anyone to help you haul a suitcase up the stairs of a charming hotel with no lift.
And there’s a small, almost secret pleasure that still makes me smile: stepping off the plane, sailing past the baggage carousel and ordering a coffee in the city while the rest of the flight is still waiting. Ten days, fifty-five centimetres and not once the words “I have nothing to wear”. Well, almost.