The One Who Packed Plastic Coat Hangers

She arrived at the airport with three bags, a sun visor, a plastic water bottle, and the confident energy of someone who’s conquered customs in 76 countries and has no intention of slowing down. Shirley was a solo traveler in her seventies, hailing proudly from Patriomagna—that vast and boisterous land of individual rights, extra ice, and carry-ons the size of large dogs.

We were embarking on a two-week journey across Winocratia—land of slow sips, strike schedules, administrative frenzy, and cafés where air-conditioning is a philosophical debate, not a utility. Shirley, for her part, had come prepared. She had opinions. She had disposable travel-size shampoo and conditioner—rose-flavoured, of course. And she had a method.

Now, I’ve met many flavors of traveler. I’ve met the Spreadsheet Crusaders. The Bucket List Tickers. The Whispering Couples. The Snack Hoarders. The Mileage Competitors.

But Shirley? Shirley was a category of her own.

She had mastered what she called the “throwaway packing method.”

Bring all your old clothes—the ones that are stained, frayed, or haunted by 1969—and wear them once before tossing them in foreign hotel bins like biodegradable breadcrumbs.

And the pièce de résistance?

She brought her own plastic coat hangers, straight from fast fashion hell, and left one behind in every room as a kind of fluorescent thank you card.

“They’re light!” she chirped. “And that way, I don’t have to unpack anything when I get home.”

I stood there, stunned—like a baguette mid-proof.

She meant it.

She really meant it.

And while she meant no harm (and was honestly kind in her own way), her worldview was a hard clash against the one I tried to share with the group—one shaped by “sobriété écologique,” a Winocratian phrase that loosely translates to “ecological restraint,” but really means:

“Don’t cool down the planet just so your room feels like a meat locker.”

It’s about less waste, more care, and maybe—just maybe—not throwing away shoes on another continent.

When I gently suggested that air conditioning in Winocratia is used sparingly—not because we’re cruel, but because we’d rather not boil the Earth alive—Shirley raised an eyebrow and said:

“Well, if y’all keep thinking like that, you’re gonna lose the Patriomagnan dollar.”

Reader, I had no response.

Which is rare.

Not even my best tour guide smile—the one I reserve for broken buses and men in cargo shorts asking if croissants have gluten without even a bonjour—could save me from that moment.

I nodded, and carried on.

“Well then… who’s hungry? Time for dinner.”

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned from the coat-hanger lady of Patriomagna, it’s this:

You can lead a tour.

You can explain local customs.

You can preach the gospel of reusable water bottles.

But sometimes, you just have to let go, shed a quiet tear or two for the planet and the future…

and recycle what you can.