In the Bag.

KATE KLISE.

Day 1: Sundaa.

Dear Ms. 6BX.

Please forgive my clumsinesswhile boarding. I would be morethan happy to pay for the cleaningor replacement of your blouse. Truthis, I would be even happier if you'dlet me take you to dinner sometimewhen we return to our side of thepond. That is, if you do plan toreturn to the U.S. (For all I know,you could be Parisian. You haveThat Look. )

CHAPTER 1.

"Webb".

Oh, G.o.dc.

I saw the problem as soon as I unzippedmy black duffel bag. There in two neatpiles sat clothes that were definitely notmine.

Colorful new T-shirts (size S). Ironedjeans. (Who irons jeans?) Flip-flops.High-heeled sandals. A skirt. A gypsy-looking blouse thing. And floweredunderwear and bras.

"Oh, G.o.d," I said again, this time outloud and with a low groan.

"What's wrong?" Dad asked. He waswalking out of the bathroom wearing ahotel robe and drying his hair with a towel.

"This isn't my stuff," I said*

"What do you mean?" Dad replied*

"This bag," I said. "It's not mine. Imust've picked up somebody else's bag atthe airport."

Dad sighed. "Oh, G.o.d, Webb." Asalways, it sounded like Oh, cobweb.

A half hour before this conversation,we'd checked into the Palace Hotel in theheart of Madrid. Dad had been hired todesign an exhibit at a nearby contemporaryart museum. The show was scheduled toopen in two days, which meant Dad wouldbe busy with work and I'd be free to spendmy spring break urban hiking. That's whyI'd packed my favorite boots.

And now what did I have? High-heeledsandals, a gypsy blouse, and bras.

"What do I do?" I asked, sitting on thebed on my side of the hotel room.

"Call the airline," Dad said. "If yourbag's still in Paris, they'll put it on a planeand get it here. We can ask, anyway." Hedidn't sound encouraging. "Is that yourbackpack?"

"Yeah," I said, kicking the green nylonbag at my feet.

"And did you have your other bag whenwe went through Customs in Paris?"

I tried to remember. I'd slept for most ofthe flight. I was barely awake when wewent through the Customs line.

"They didn't open my bags," I recalled,digging through my backpack in search ofmy cell phone. That's when I remembered.

"Oh, no," I said*

"Now what?*

"I think I left my phone at school.*

Dad sighed again, this time louder. "Doyou have your baggage claim ticket? Oryour boarding pa.s.ses?"

I rummaged through the pockets of myjeans: gum wrappers, a dime, a dusty TicTac. "I don't know.*

Dad walked over to the desk chairwhere he'd thrown his jacket. He emptiedthe pockets.

"Here," he said, holding up a fistful ofpapers. "So at least we know what flightswe were on. American Airlines flight 854connecting to flight 42. Then, Air Franceflight 1600 from Paris to Madrid."

"Uh-huh," I mumbled*

"And of course," Dad continued, "youhad a tag on your bag." He paused. "Webb,please tell me you had a tag on your bagwith your name on it."

"Yeah," I said tentatively. "I think I did.I mean, I'm pretty sure I did. Wait. Did I?"

"Oh, G.o.d, Webb.*

CHAPTER 2"Coco".

Oh, s.h.i.t!*

"What's wrong?" Mom asked from thebedroom.

She'd been nice enough to offer me thebedroom, but I really did prefer the futonin the living room. All I had to do wasopen the wooden shutters and I could lookout and see Paris. Paris!

I'd been waiting for this moment formonths. For Christmas, Mom had given mea black duffel bag from L.L.Bean filledwith Paris guidebooks. I'd spent much ofthe flight from Chicago highlighting all thethings I wanted to see during my springbreak.

Now all I wanted to do was kill myself*

"s.h.i.t!" I said again.

"You know I hate that word," Mom said,walking the short distance from thebedroom to the living room of ourborrowed apartment on rue des Trois-Freres.

"Well, I hate myself," I answered,flopping on the futon.

"What is it?" Mom demanded.

But one look at the grubby wad ofclothes in the middle of the floor answeredher question. Instead of the clothes I hadcarefully chosen and meticulously packed,she saw a pile of old T-shirts, dirty jeans(Who packs unwashed jeans?), stinkyhiking boots, boxer shorts, and onewrinkled white shirt.

"Whose stuff is that?" Mom asked*

"I don't know," I answered*

"Then how'd you get it? And where'syour bag?"

"I don't know," I said icily. And then Ihated myself even more for snapping at mymom. I swallowed hard and tried again. "Isomehow picked up the wrong bag at theairport. I'm such an idiot."

"You're not an idiot," Mom insisted.She looked around the room. "Do you haveyour book bag?"

"Yeah," I said. "I had that with me onthe plane. It's the other bag-the bag Ichecked."

"Okay, did you have both bags when wewent through Customs?"

I thought back to the line we'd stood inat the airport. I was carrying two bags. TheCustoms agent had looked at me and then atmy pa.s.sport. Then he stamped it, and thatwas it.

"n.o.body opened my bags," I said. "So Idon't know if I had the right one eventhen." I could feel hot tears burning in myeyes*

"It's okay," Mom said. "We'll go backto the airport and get your bag. It's not abig deal. Just give me five minutes tochange clothes. I've got to get out of thisblouse. I smell like vinegar."

She turned and promptly stubbed her toeon a table.

"s.h.i.t," she said. And she hobbled downthe hall to the bedroom.

CHAPTER 3"Andrew".

Oh, h.e.l.lc What had I done? Webb thought I wasbeing short-tempered with him about thebag. And granted, that was onecomplication we didn't need. But the truthwas, I was kicking myself for somethingI'd done earlier in the day.

Here I had one of the biggestcommissions of the year-designing anexhibit of digital art at the Palacio deCristal in Madrid-but instead of workingon my final notes for the show, I spent theentire flight from Chicago to Parisobsessing about a woman sitting in firstcla.s.s.

I saw her as we were boarding. She wax already seated, reading a magazine anddrinking a complimentary gla.s.s of redwine from a real gla.s.s. (Ah, the privilegesof first-cla.s.s travel.) I was glad to bewalking behind Webb so I could linger abit longer over this vision in seat 6B. Iwilled her to raise her eyes from themagazine so I could see her face better, butshe was engrossed in a recipe. I tried tosee what it was. Something gratin?Something rustique? I was struggling toread upside down.

And that's when Webb stopped to helpan elderly pa.s.senger load a roller bag inthe overhead compartment. I walked rightinto my son and lost my balance. It wasonly for a split second, but long enough forme to b.u.mp Ms. 6B's arm just as she wasraising the gla.s.s to her lips.

"Dammit!" I said as she spilled redwine down the front of her blouse. "I'm sosorry.*

"Oh!" said the woman, her eyes on thestain.

"Can I-" I started to say*

But a flight attendant swooped in with adamp cloth. "Here, let me blot," she told Ms. 6B. And then like a stern nurse shN ordered me to take my seat. "Now."I spent the next eight hours in a fog ofmental distraction and physical contortion.

If I twisted my neck to an absurd angle, Icould see her from my aisle seat in rowthirteen. I watched her cross her legs, firstin one direction and then the other. Shewas wearing attractive black shoes that sheslipped off early into the flight. How oldwas she? Forty? Maybe forty-five?

I watched as she coiled her golden-brown ponytail around itself until itbecame a bun. A bun? No, that sounds likesomething from my mother's generation,and this was definitely a postmodernwoman. Witness her rectangular gla.s.ses-so chic and architectural. The perfectframe for her angular face. In a previousera, she might've been a n.o.blewoman wh.o.m.odeled for Botticelli.

Best of all, I didn't see anyone sittingnext to her. For a moment I almostregretted cashing in my first-cla.s.s ticket,provided by the client, to buy coach-cla.s.stickets for Webb and me. Neither of us fitcomfortably in the seats, especially not mysix-foot, four-inch son.

But there we were in row thirteen.While Webb watched the G.o.d-awful AdamSandler movie, I drafted the note in myhead. When Webb finally closed his eyesto sleep, I pulled a piece of paper from mybriefcase and began writing.

K.

Dear Ms. 6B Please forgive my clumsinesswhile boarding. I would be more thanhappy to pay for the cleaning orreplacement of your blouse. Truth is, Iwould be even happier if you'd let metake you to dinner sometime when wereturn to our side of the pond. That is,if you do plan to return to the U.S.(For all I know, you could beParisian. You have That Look. ) Were I traveling alone, I might bebolder and introduce myself to youwhen we land. But for now, all I cando is invite you to e-mail me if you'reinterested in meeting an admirer whofeels terrible about ruining your travelattire.

K.

Most sincerely Mr. 13[ MyK e-mailc You are truly first cla.s.s.

I immediately regretted the P.S. Itbordered on sleazy, but I liked the way itbalanced the note. I hoped she'd read itwith a wry smile. She looked like awoman with a sense of irony, the kind ofcharacter you see in BBC dramas. A Kate-Winslet-esque actress who wears redlipstick and a silk slip.

I wondered if I'd really have the nerveto give the note to the woman. Probablynot. I'd never done anything even remotelylike this before. Who did this kind ofthing? Desperate men. Lonely men. Singlefathers with teenage sons.

I decided to do it. Why not? Why theh.e.l.l not? What did I have to lose? Yes, Ithought. I'll do it!

I waited until we'd landed at Charles deGaulle and were collecting our luggage atthe baggage claim area. Webb and I had tocatch our connecting flight to Madrid at theAir France terminal, so there was no timeto waste.

"Grab your bag and let's go," I toldWebb. I'd already spotted Ms. 6B by thebaggage carousel.

She was taller than I'd thought. Prettier,too, with an air of self-confidence. Herface looked freshly washed. Her hair waspulled back in the original ponytail. Thestyle nicely set off her long neck. I likedher choice of travel clothes: wide-legblack slacks and a short black jacket thatcovered her ruined blouse. But mostly Iliked her face. The narrow nose. The wayher lips formed an involuntary smile. Shelooked strong but kind, even after atransatlantic flight.

I brushed past her, close enough to seeshe wore no rings on her left hand. Then Istuck the note in her bag*

I did it! I thought. I DID IT! Twoseconds later my mind shifted to: Why didI do that?

"Come on, Webb," I ordered under mybreath. "Get your bag and let's go-now."

It was my fault he'd grabbed the wrongbag.

Oh, h.e.l.lc