My ‘insane’ attempt to spend a month in Europe with only carry-on bags

“Insane” is how one friend described my plan to spend a month in Europe with a single carry-on case plus a small cross-body bag for personal items. As I’m packing, I begin to think her assessment is too kind.

When I devise this bright idea, it appears not only doable, but sensible. I recall weekends away and Christmas holidays where I routinely end up using just a fraction of the clothes I pack, while the size and range of my skin care/medical emergencies bag suggests it belongs to a make-up artist who moonlights as a paramedic.

The two 2.2 kilo suitcases my husband and I take to Europe.Credit: Michael Carey

Our family of three is going to Dublin then Scandinavia, staying mostly in Airbnb apartments, and several hosts have warned their places are up many flights of stairs. The trip is in late summer/early autumn, so packing light seems reasonable. And the clincher: I have horrible, sweaty memories from a previous holiday of climbing the stairs of the Paris Metro lugging a suitcase so heavy I could have been smuggling a baby pigmy hippo into the city. Our last stop on this trip is Paris. This time, I will leave Moo Deng behind.

In preparation, I scope out the lightest carry-on bags. I buy my husband an uber-light camera backpack. I invest in travel scales and read blogs titled: “Packing like a pro” and “The ultimate carry-on packing list”. I decant my shampoo into a small plastic bottle and weigh my skin care. Then I research the weight limits for carry-on luggage for the Scandinavian carriers. That’s when I begin to peel back my ambition.

Finnair, our carrier between Stockholm and Bergen, allows for a total of just eight kilos of carry-on luggage – suitcase plus personal bag. That seems extreme. Perhaps I can make it if I buy the very lightest carry-on with wheels (1.8 kilos), but that suitcase looks too small for use later on when I’m not trying to set a world record for bloody-mindedness.

I go for the next up in the range, which has a zipper extender that allows a little bit of wiggle room and weighs 2.2 kilos. I decide to check my luggage in for the flights to and from Europe, but my aim will be to travel with luggage weighing 10 kilos in total. That means I can avoid checking-in baggage for Scandinavian and Norwegian Air, but can’t kiss goodbye to baggage claim entirely.

On departure day, even this lowered expectation proves difficult to meet. Work and family commitments mean I leave the final pack to the last minute. The result is a frantic adding and subtracting exercise that doubles as an unasked-for test of character.

Should I take the silk pants I don’t like so much, or the heavier ones that I do? The ones I like, of course. My favourite summer dress that will probably only come out in Paris? Have to have it. A mid-weight coat that will look great in Paris or the sensible fleece jacket? Both.

The truth is: I cheat. I wear my heaviest pants, my jeans, for the flight to Europe, wrap the jacket around my waist and wear the mid-weight coat on top. I carry a folder of travel documents and a book under my arm, and stuff an umbrella into the coat pocket. But my suitcase and personal bag total 10 kilos (8.4 and 1.6 kilos respectively). Success!

Dublin

When we get to Dublin, I immediately regret the coat. It is 22 degrees; never has an Australian been so unhappy to see the sun shining in Ireland. I swelter as we wait for a taxi. But on the plus side, we climb the terrifyingly steep staircase to our terrace-house bedroom in safety because we aren’t hefting a heavy suitcase at the same time. The washer and dryer are efficient and modern, so it is easy to do the regular washing that a limited wardrobe demands. And on the last night, my husband confides that he feels less daunted by the thought of packing knowing he has much less than usual to pack.

Ten kilograms for four weeks in Europe.Credit: Michael Carey

Copenhagen

Somehow, my child hasn’t got the message that we are packing extra light. Even though she is leaving loads of clothing behind in Dublin because she is coming back to go to university, she still has a suitcase weighing 12 kilos, plus a laptop and a backpack. We are not going to make Norwegian Air’s carry-on restrictions. And given my husband’s confession that his main bag weighs just over 10 kilos on top of his camera bag, we probably never would have. The knowledge encourages me to sin (yet again) against the carry-on purists’ manual. My main case and bag together weigh 10 kilos, but I acquire a large white plastic shopping bag and jam my coat, my travel folder and two books in it to take on board the plane. I check in my main suitcase at Dublin, and board the plane clutching my white plastic bag, giving off Christmas-sale-shopper rather than cool-travel-pro vibes.

Eventually, I sinned against the carry-on purists’ manual.Credit: Getty Images

But here’s what I learn: the long lines at immigration at Copenhagen (aren’t the Danes supposed to be efficient?) mean that even if we had avoided the baggage claim, it wouldn’t have saved much time. And though we didn’t make the strict carry-on cut-off, we are still travelling relatively lightly – so getting the train into the city, trundling along the streets of Copenhagen, stashing our bags next to our table at a swish restaurant while we wait for our Airbnb to be cleaned, and then navigating three flights of stairs to the apartment don’t faze us.

Stockholm

Taking public transport to Copenhagen’s central train station and then the train to Stockholm is a breeze with our smaller suitcases. They easily lift into the luggage rack on the intercity train and, blessedly, the temperatures in Stockholm are milder and my coat comes in handy. But then we hit a snag.

At first, I assume our hosts have hidden their washing machine behind some clever cabinetry because Scandi small-space thinking is so evident elsewhere in the apartment. But eventually, after opening every cupboard, I check the listing. It explicitly says no washing machine or dryer. I just hadn’t noticed. Our host explains the shared laundry is in the basement and his neighbours do not want guests using it. He recommends a laundrette.

I put this drudgery off for a few days, but soon our need for fresh underwear becomes pressing. The laundrette website doesn’t have an English translation, but I figure I can mime my way through the transaction if necessary. Thankfully, it isn’t, but while I save on dignity, I spend time and cash on this unplanned expedition. It costs $30 to wash and dry our underwear plus a few T-shirts and this part of town isn’t particularly interesting, so I can’t even claim it as one of those travel moments where you discover a hidden local gem through an unplanned detour. I don’t. It is just a drag.

Bergen in Norway is charming but wet.Credit: Michael Carey

Bergen, Balestrand, Flam, Oslo

Something else I didn’t notice when booking our trip: Bergen is Europe’s rainiest city. Once there, however, this meteorological fact is impossible to miss. It is in our faces as well as down our necks and in our shoes. This last facet of travel in the otherwise beautiful Bergen presents a problem. While I had packed a raincoat and could pat myself on the back for shoving that umbrella into my coat pocket at the last minute, my sneakers are my only closed-toe shoes; good for walking but not so good for walking in the wet.

Repacking in Paris

I dry them out overnight but the next morning, at some point, the rain pours, and they get soaked once more. So for the next few days in Bergen and then during our time in the Sognefjord at Balestrand and Flam, where we walk every day, my feet are often damp, if not outright sodden. Thankfully, they do not squelch or smell. And every time we check into an Airbnb with a washing machine and dryer I am so relieved to be able to keep our clothes clean and dry that I can overlook my moist feet.

Meanwhile, my travel-pro credentials crash even further: I pick up a second plastic bag. The bags carry our travelling library and our Scandi pantry – the little necessities that our Airbnb’s don’t have, such as my favourite tea – plus any food we haven’t finished and don’t want to buy again in the next town (porridge oats, apples). In Oslo, we buy some cheap towels to take to the sauna. I intend to leave them behind in the Airbnb, but my inner hoarder asserts itself; I throw out the food, and put the towels into the white bags. We take them to Paris as carry-ons. Classy.

Paris

Picture four flights of narrow spiral staircase with no lighting. Then imagine picking your way down them just before dawn with two suitcases. That is our last morning in Paris and, at that teeth-gritting moment, we are so grateful our suitcases are carry-ons. Our departure from our Montmartre Airbnb (not to mention our arrival on the Paris Metro from the Gare du Nord 10 days earlier) is so much easier and safer because we have small suitcases.

At Charles de Gaulle my main suitcase weighs 9.9 kilos (I’ve put the towels and my jeans inside) and my personal bag is 1.6 kilos, while my husband’s main bag weighs 12.9 kilos, and he has his camera backpack. Not Scandi airlines light – we’ve failed that challenge – but still easily our lightest-ever luggage on returning home.

The staircase in our Paris apartment building.

What do we regret? Our limited range of clothes didn’t bother us except for one item: we both wish we’d had a tailored jacket; so versatile and the right weight for Paris in early autumn. I wish I’d had a pair of boots. Restricting medical supplies to prescription drugs meant buying some ibuprofen along the way, which was fine, but next time I’ll pack some vitamin C powder to help ward off colds because that’s harder to track down in unfamiliar territory. And we’ll take a folding backpack. Otherwise, we like the mobility that travelling with smaller bags gave us, and we’ll do it again, but without the shopping bags.

Five lessons from travelling light in Europe

1. Even when you’ve packed the fewest pieces of clothing you’ve ever packed for a European trip, there is still one piece you feel meh about and hardly ever wear – in my case, a light summer dress.
2. Check if your Airbnb accommodations have their own washing machines and driers. Some share their laundry facilities with neighbours who don’t want to sort their smalls alongside pesky tourists.
3. Get a small, foldable backpack. You’ll use it for everything.
4. Be serious about not packing a last-minute book when you have an e-reader. Books are beautiful, but they are heavy. They’ll still be by your bedside table when you come back.
5. There will be clothes you wished you’d packed, but their absence won’t stop you enjoying beautiful places, great food and good company.