I love big bags. A normally frugal person when it comes to buying clothes, I lose all sense of proportion when it comes to a nice cavernous bag that will hold everything I toss in and beg for more.

I’ve never understood how my friends can meet me for a movie carrying only a wallet…or a stylish little bag slung over the shoulder, so flat that it can’t possibly even contain a wallet. Don’t they need…well…everything with them?

I think of my bags as a kind of Boy Scout strategy; I’m always prepared. I might need any of this stuff at any moment. So here’s what’s typically in my bag (this is one of my favorite bags, a Longchamp I bought in Paris):

1) Kindle eBook reader. I’ve got 45 books loaded on there. You never know when you’ll get a minute to read, right?

2) Little yellow bag. It holds my earphones (for listening to music on the iPhone, listening to books on the Kindle, and using on airplanes in place of the horrible things the airlines provide), bottle of Zantac (a person could get indigestion at any moment), some Compeed blister pads (ditto about blisters), packs of gum.

3) Green lipstick case. A couple of lipsticks, a pot of lip balm, a few extra pens (pens do run out of ink, you know.)

4) Red camera case. Now that I blog and write a newsletter about Paris, I take pictures constantly.

5) Pack of Kleenex. Actually, this is a representative pack. There are usually at least three or four in my bag. Besides the obvious sneeze protection, very useful if you suddenly find yourself peeing in the woods. Not that I do, but I could.

6) Green glasses case. Can’t read without my glasses.

7) Passport. My passport is always on me. I’m just waiting for somebody to say, “Let’s go to Barcelona right now.” So far, nobody has. (See “Always Prepared,” above.) But I also much prefer using my passport going through airport security. You can stick your boarding pass and bag check tag in it. Makes a nice little package you’re not likely to lose going through the line. It’s too easy to drop a driver’s license.

Red sunglasses case. I always anticipate sunshine, don’t you? (I cannot figure out how this annoying little face appeared in my blog in place of the numeral 8, but I can’t make it go away.)

9) Wallet. Duh. This is a beautiful one my friend Mark gave me last year.

10) iPhone. I never loved a cellphone till I got this puppy. Email at a touch? Check. Entire phone and email directory? Check. Instant map of exactly where I am now? Check. App for translating this paragraph into French? Check. Unlike any other cellphone I’ve ever owned, I actually leave this one on.

11) Keys. Two keys for the front door, one for the apartment building garage door. Car key. Basement storage locker key (not that I ever go there). And all those little dangly things like gym entrance card, Safeway card, library card. (Okay, now that I have my Kindle I never go to the library anymore, but I could.)

12) Pen. One of many. (See 3 above.)

13. Little orange journal for taking notes. Sometimes you’ve just got to grab the thought as it comes. Yes, I could do it on my iPhone, but I don’t type so well with my thumbs.

14. Purple umbrella. Never know when it’s going to rain.

15. Compass on a red lanyard. You come up from a subway in a part of a city you don’t know well, and the compass is your best friend. I have actually navigated the twisting, never-parallel streets of Venice from one end to the other with my compass. Works way better than a map.

16) Missing: an Apple iPad. I lust for one, but I’m waiting for the next generation. Might replace the little orange journal and the Kindle. Might.

It all feels necessary to me. What’s in your handbag that you can’t live without?

When you spend as much time in airports as I do, you notice little things that make your life easier…or not.

Lately, I’ve been loving Dulles Airport. Of the three airports near me in the Washington, DC area (National, Dulles and BWI), it’s the farthest for me to drive. But Dulles works so well now that I don’t even mind the drive. Here’s the good stuff I love…

1) Using the new AeroTrain.

Finally, Dulles has a quick train that runs between terminals. It’s clean, bright and fast. The train replaces the old mobile lounges (funny, they never felt like lounges) that trundled across the runways above ground. There are still a few mobile lounges in operation, but I haven’t been on one since the train started operation.

Architecturally, the passenger approaches to the train’s underground tunnels  feel light and airy. Floors glow from underneath. Heading for the train out of B terminal, suspended in the well of the long escalator, is a tiny one-person flying machine labeled “Daedalus.” Its long slender wings look as fragile as those of dragonflies. It’s the first human-powered airplane, I understand, on loan from MIT.

One little niggle…Dulles needs a bit better signage coming off the trains. Signs clearly direct you to the baggage carousels by number, but not by airline. So it’s easy to exit toward one end of the airport when you need to be on the other. I imagine they’ll fix that soon.

2) Not using the new AeroTrain.

When I’m in a hurry, the AeroTrain gets me there fast. But if I’ve got some time to kill, I can walk all the way from my car in the daily parking lot to my gate. I bet it’s at least half a mile, depending where you’re flying to. There aren’t many airports where you have the option to walk if you want the exercise (Atlanta’s Hartsfield’s another one). At Dulles, you can hop on the moving sidewalk…or not. Take the train…or not…at least to the A and B terminals.

Being able to walk between terminals means a lot to me. When I’m flying, that’s probably the only exercise I’ll get. I hate coming back to the U.S. through Chicago’s O’Hare, for instance, because your only option after leaving International Arrivals is to take a very crowed little train. The distance to the main terminals isn’t far, but there’s no way to walk it.

3) The Dulles Diamond Security Lanes.

The security lines at Dulles have been way improved to coordinate with the AeroTrain. But there’s a little-known other place to go through security at Dulles that’s even better.

Really, I’ve debated whether I wanted to tell you this or not. It’s such a delicious thing to know about Dulles, and way under-used. I’d like to keep it that way. But still, you should know that downstairs, near baggage carousel 8, are the Dulles Diamond lanes. They’re reserved for experienced travelers. They expect you to know how to whip off your shoes (and no experienced traveler, as we saw in Up in the Air, would ever wear lace-up shoes), take off your jacket, scarf, sweater, pop your computer into the plastic bin and toss the exactly portioned baggie of your liquids into a different bin.

There’s never a line down at the Dulles Diamond lanes. The few people who are there whisk through.

There’s lots more to like at Dulles, but these are my favorite things. Haven’t been to Dulles later? You might want to give it try.

by Frank Finamore, guest blogger

I’m an admitted coffee junkie. My fascination probably started as a kid when I saw that my grandmother’s blue Wedgewood cup was never empty. Today, I sometimes go to bed early just so that the time will go by faster before I can indulge in my next fix.  Is there anything better than a hot cup of joe in the morning?

I remember the great coffee spots that I’ve had the privilege to stumble upon. There was the Parisian bakery in the 16th that thought it was odd that my partner and I were ordering croissants and cafe au lait after noon. It had been a late night, but that coffee was a bit of heaven. Then there’s the Atocha train station in Madrid where I don’t think it’s possible to get a bad espresso, even if you have to wade through a cloud of smoke to get to the bar. In Italy, probably my favorite spot for coffee, I fondly remember a cappuccino in a tiny restaurant, which could have actually doubled as someone’s home, called Gato Nero tucked away in a remote corner of Sorrento.

But all of these places are the usual European haunts where coffee abounds.  More surprising was a small cafe located in the heart of Willemstad, Curacao that knocked my  socks off with a rich blend of European boldness and hearty Colombian beans.  But as much as I still savor that cup, even as it gets better with each memory of it, I have found true bliss in the most unlikely of places, Tijuana, Mexico.

Better known for its taco stands or late-night haunts, if you’re near the border, make a pit stop at La Stazione for the best cafe latte on the planet. Seriously. Located just a few doors down from the American Consulate, across from the famous Tijuana racetrack, you will get the most delicious, most beautiful coffee, served by the friendliest, multi-lingual baristas.

On my first visit, I was blown away immediately by the sheer beauty of my drink.  My friends and I compared cups (and yes, they serve in real ceramic cups.) I had a flower design made by the precise fusion of milk and espresso. My friend’s had a heart and a pine tree.  More importantly, the flavor made me think, “Who needs Europe?”

(Frank’s blog is called One Man’s Story; he writes about growing up in the Washington, DC area and how his family helped shape the man he is today.)

I was in Paris last week expressly so I could attend the International Agriculture Salon. It’s like the biggest state fair you’ve ever seen – except that it’s way better…indoors, in Paris, and all about French food and wine.

What particularly lured me was the cows. Of the five enormous pavilions at the show, one is devoted to cows, sheep, pigs, rabbits, chickens and pigeons (the kind you eat, of course). All through the day you can sit in an arena and watch judges choose the best in class among Charolais or Holsteins or many other breeds. When they declare the winner, rock music plays loudly and colored lights flash. It didn’t look like the cows were much moved by the hoopla, but it made their handlers happy. Having a winning cow is big stuff in the ag world.

My friend Donna Morris and I walked through the stalls touching every cow we could. (They are very large close up.) Many clanked with huge decorative bells strapped around their necks. Calves nuzzled up to their moms – even in the competition rings. In the pig section, litters of little ones cavorted around the sleeping sows.

This is a serious trade show as well as fun for ordinary people. Men sit hunched together over tables – with a glass of wine, of course – negotiating the best prices for artificial insemination from the very finest bulls.

As we made our way through the animals, booths offered free tastings of yogurt and cheese and fresh milk – way more flavorful than the very pasteurized stuff we get in the US. Almost any food made in France was represented: artisanal ice creams, foie gras, bread, milk, honey, olive oil, sausage, bread, wine, beer. You could buy products to eat, to wear, to supply your kitchen or just to delight your dog back home.

I suspect that most of the people surging through the salon were really there for the food. In the Régions of France pavilion, booths offered up oysters from Brittany, aligot — mashed potatoes with tomme cheese — from the Auvergne, foie gras from Périgord, snails and beef from Burgundy. Throngs of people crowded the 38 temporary sit-down restaurants, each featuring the specialties of an agricultural area. The pavilion also includes Madagascar, Martinique, Guadeloupe and the other overseas areas considered part of France. There the spices of the Caribbean and Africa scented the stalls, and Calypso music played under the crowd noise. Another entire pavilion is devoted to foods from other countries: Japan, Korea, Switzerland, Italy, Germany and many more. No wonder everyone was walking out with shopping bags.

Unlike a typical US state fair, there weren’t any carnival rides, although Donna took a huge green tractor out for a spin around the parking lot. Mostly, everyone was intent on food and where it came from.

At the same time as the Ag Salon was Fashion Week in Paris. Long white tents were lined up in the Tuileries gardens, and there was a plethora of tall thin people sighted in the cool restaurants. But really…skinny models or fat cows? For me, it’s the cows all the way.

Listening to live jazz is often problematic for me, because jazz clubs start playing about the time I’m snapping off the bedside lamp. But last week in Paris, my friend Donna Morris pointed me to the Cercle Suédois, upstairs in a beautiful building near the Place de la Concorde, where the jazz runs from 7:30 – 10pm on Wednesday nights.

As we walked up the marble stairs, we could hear a buzz of people. Stylishly dressed people, mostly in their 30s and 40s, were crowded into the bar. A €10 entrance fee also brought me a glass of wine.

Located right on the rue de Rivoli, the Swedish Circle club has been operating in Paris since 1891. They host a number of events for members and guests, and you can even eat lunch there Monday – Friday. For the Wednesday night jazz concerts, you don’t have to be a member or even invited; you just walk in.

We sat in a typically French room with high ceilings and arched windows overlooking the Tuileries gardens. Tall mirrors and a crystal chandelier made the room sparkle with light. There’s a different menu during the jazz concerts every week. I ordered Swedish tapas: herring in mustard sauce, salmon pudding, meatballs and smoked lamb with horseradish (a bargain for €10).

Up in front of the room, Viktorija Gecyte from Lithuania sang American jazz classics, backed up by Julien Coriatt on piano and Peter Giron on bass. Viktorija has a light and clear voice, and she sang almost exclusively in English. People talked together quietly – mostly in French and Swedish — during the sets, and others wandered in and out. There was always a crush at the bar in the next room.

This was a totally unexpected evening for me – not the sort of thing I do at home. Despite its Swedish origin, it felt very Parisian. If you like jazz, I’d definitely suggest you drop by on your next visit to Paris (doesn’t everybody have a next visit coming up someday?)