Two weeks before we leave for Europe, I ordered a universal plug adapter on Amazon.

About two hours later, I found the one we already owned sitting right in front of me. I did not tell my wife. What I said was, “It’s probably a good idea to have two of them.” She believed me, or she was kind enough to pretend she did. Either way, my fragile sense of competence lived to fight another day.

Packing for this trip is more complicated than it sounds. If we were flying straight to the cruise ship in Copenhagen, it would be simple—once you’re on the boat, American plugs work, and a European adapter just doubles your chances of having too many things charging at once. But we’re spending a few days in Germany first, which means adapters matter. On our British Isles cruise a couple of years ago, we needed European plugs for exactly one night before the cruise and zero nights after. Different math applies here: five nights of actual need, twenty nights of me obsessing about it like we’re going off‑grid.

My wife will be flying to Houston for work the Monday before we leave. I won’t join her until Thursday. Her plan—which is honestly a good one—is to take a work suitcase to Houston, have our daughter ship it back to our son in Oklahoma, and then go to the airport together Friday afternoon with one checked bag and one carry‑on. Clean. Simple. Elegant. Almost guaranteed to be attacked by reality at some point, but I admire the ambition and I appreciate that someone in this marriage can visualize a straight line.

We borrowed vacuum packing bags from our son to make the most of our space. I have doubts about this. Not strong doubts, but doubts. In theory, vacuum bags help you pack smarter. In practice, they help you pack more, which is how a three‑week trip starts to look like we’re quietly moving to a new continent under witness protection.

The temperature question is the one keeping me up. Europe was hot last week, but it might cool off and be hot again by the time we get to certain ports. We overpacked for cold on the British Isles trip. We overpacked for cold in Alaska. At some point you’d think we’d learn. The problem is that packing for heat and then hitting a cold snap makes you look like someone who doesn’t know how to use a search engine. I would like to not be that person this time, mostly for my own dignity and the ability to walk off the ship without looking like I dressed in the dark.

We also had to reorder umbrellas. We lost our last pair somewhere between packing and unpacking after the British Isles trip. Maybe the OKC move got them. Maybe they saw our packing style and ran away to live with a more responsible family. Either way, they’re gone. Two new ones have arrived, which means somewhere in this house, there are four umbrellas slowly planning a reunion, and I will absolutely find all of them three days after we get home.

The t‑shirt debate is more personal. In my younger years, I loved the clever phrase shirts—the ones that made strangers think I was witty without me actually having to talk to them. Now I want the opposite. Minimal design. Small logo. Something that asks nothing of anyone. I’ll probably wear my Texas shirt because I lived there. Maybe a hat with the hockey team logo from the boys we billet. The older I get, the less I want to be noticed and the more I want to be comfortable. That’s my fashion evolution: from “look at me” to “I’m fine, let’s all move on.”

One souvenir I’m almost certain to bring home is a t‑shirt I’ll wear on the next trip. That’s the full circle: buy shirt, wear shirt, repeat, occasionally remember the trip, almost never impress anyone. It’s a quiet investment in future laundry.

The karaoke situation deserves a mention. My wife has already brought it up multiple times—how excited she is to watch it on the ship. I do not love karaoke. When the same person who cannot carry a tune insists on performing multiple nights in a row, the novelty fades faster than my patience. I’ll be there. I’ll smile. I’ll clap at the right times. She knows I’ll be there and smiling, and that’s probably why she keeps mentioning it—she enjoys the show, I enjoy the sociology experiment of watching one person’s confidence outlive everyone else’s eardrums.

So here we are: twelve days out. Adapters acquired (twice). Vacuum bags borrowed. Umbrellas replaced. T‑shirts effectively sorted into “attention‑seeking” and “emotionally stable.” Karaoke mentally prepared for.

We’re basically ready—or at least as ready as two people can be when one of them keeps ordering things we technically already own and the other one kindly pretends this is part of the plan.