Bag of Tricks

How a durable piece of luggage became so much more than mere reunion swag.

IT WAS IN POLAND THAT I REALIZED The Bag was enchanted.

I was standing in the middle of the Krakow train station, panicked and helpless on a freezing cold February morning in 2003.1 had just lost the greatest bag I would ever own. The clothes, the passport, the airplane ticket home—all of which I had stowed in The Bag—could be replaced.

But The Bag itself—that perfectly sized, surprisingly stylish, fiercely durable Dartmouth class of 1996 reunion duffel bag—how could I ever possibly replace so priceless a bag?

It had come into my possession two years earlier, as part of the souvenir package handed out at our fifth-year reunion. At first glance it might not have seemed like much, merely your standard-issue, black canvas duffel bag. But as with any great relationship, The Bag revealed its special qualities over time, over the course of many disparate encounters. Until one day it dawned upon me that I was in possession of the ideal bag. The only bag for me.

Consider the stylish design: Black, save for the outside pockets, which are lined in Dartmouth green, with a modest design, in silver, on the side—a halfpine tree and the words "DARTMOUTH Class of 1996—Five Year Reunion." And consider the size: The main pocket runs much deeper than in most duffel bags, so that you can stuff half your wardrobe into it and still have room for a pair of shoes, and perhaps a small toddler. Even at full capacity, the bag never gets stuck in airport security X-ray machines, and it slides neatly into even the tightest overhead baggage compartments.

Within months of the reunion The Bag had pushed all of the other luggage in my life to the very farthest reaches of my closet. It worked for weekend getaways or week-long business trips; it traveled with me to at least a dozen American cities and four foreign countries. Nor was I only the only one in thrall of The Bag. In November 2001 two classmates living in separate cities traveled to my house in Texas for a weekend mini-reunion—and both arrived with their reunion bags in tow. The following spring, while traveling through New Zealand with another classmate, we loaded up our rental car with our identical bags, which—for the rest of the trip—we had trouble telling apart.

"I chose the duffel bag because I thought it would be more utilitarian that a regular tote and that it would be ideal as a gym bag," Ahn-Thu Cunion '9 6 told me when Ie-mailed her asking how she settled on these particular bags. Utility certainly goes a long way. But the more time I spent traveling with The Bag, the more I decided that something else was at work in makingThe Bag so special. Namely, my pride as a Dartmouth alum and my eagerness to carry that pride with me wherever I go.

Most of us collect Dartmouth talismans right from the instant we are accepted by the College. I remember, as a high school senior, carting home to New York a box of T-shirts, sweatshirts, gym shorts and cardecals from the Dartmouth Co-Op after visiting the campus for the first time. But as we get older those talismans begin to seem overly sentimental or precious or braggardly. We may even start to feel self-conscious that we're rubbing our privileged education in the faces of others.

But The Bag made me understand the value of holding onto these talismans well into adulthood. Most obviously, they connect you to complete strangers who also went to Dartmouth—such as the filmmaker from the class of 1987 who saw my bag and struck up a conversation in the Salt Lake City airport, at the end of the 2003 Sundance Film Festival. More subtly—and more importantly—these talismans convey to complete strangers an essential part of our identities. They tell others that Dartmouth isn't just on our bags—it's also in our bones. The class of 1996 reunion bag, especially.The logo design, also by Cunion, strikes that perfect balance: It neither pretentiously shouts out your Ivy League pedigree nor seeks to obscure it. It's simply content in its own canvas skin—it's quietly proud to be a Dartmouth bag. It's probably not worth very much money, but it's the sort of everyday object that comes to seem like an extension of your very being—a bag you wouldn't give up for all the fortune in the world.

a vast and slightly sinister place whose constantly clanging elevator kept me up all night. By the time I boarded the train to Krakow and stowed The Bag on the shelf above my seat, I was desperately craving sleep. The train pulled out of the station—and within minutes I was dead to the universe. The next thing I knew, the train was stopped. The conductor was shouting something in Polish, and dozens of people were streaming on and Which brings me back to Poland on that cold February morning. I was there writing a travel story for my newspaper. I spent my first three nights in Warsaw, in Poland's answer to The Overlook Hotel— off the train.

We were in Krakow, and the train was about to begin moving. I scrambled to my feet, grabbed my knapsack and dashed onto the platform. I was up a long flight of stairs and then halfway to the stations main entrance when I realized what had happened: In my half-slumbering state, I had left The Bag on the train.

I ran back to the platform. Too late. The train had already departed. The Bag was on its way to Gdansk without me.

I wandered around the station for the next 15 minutes, reckoning with the traveler's nightmare confronting me: I didn't speak a word of Polish. I figured the chances of successfully explaining the situation to authorities, and finding The Bag at the next station, were pretty much nil. But I pulled myself together and made my way to a help desk. And that's when I realized The Bag was enchanted.

A Polish teenager who spoke English was standing right behind me in the line, and he volunteered to translate my dilemma. The help desk clerk made a phone call, which seemed to last five minutes. Then she spoke to my translator for what seemed like another five minutes. And all of that Polish translated to this single sentence: "Your bag is in an office near the platform."

Was it possible? Could The Bag have been rescued from the train and taken to the office, all within the few moments after I departed the train, and before the train departed the station? I didn't think so. Surely something had been lost in this Polish teenagers translation.

I raced back to the platform. I found the office in question. And there it was. The Bag.My Bag. Waiting for me. As regal-looking and patient as ever. In its stoicism and simplicity, it seemed to be quietly chiding me for letting it out of my sight to begin with.

I'm a pragmatic and skeptical guy— certainly not the type who believes in magic or unsolved mysteries or random acts of God. Except for that day in Poland. The Bags rescue seems so inexplicableso impossible—that I can only ascribe it to some kind of higher power. Someone was watching out for The Bag. Or maybe The Bag had a mind of its own, and was watching out for me. One way or the other, The Bag and I were reunited, and we continued on our journey through Poland together, inseparable.

These days I keep much closer tabs on The Bag, which will be traveling with me back to Hanover for my "10th" (i.e., ninth) reunion in June. I certainly don't want to have a repeat of the Krakow incident. But even if it were to be misplaced again, somehow I doubt I will worry as much. I've come to realize that, as with Dartmouth itself, I probably couldn't shake off The Bag if I tried.

It neither pretentiously shouts out your Ivy League pedigree nor seeks to obscure it.

CHRISTOPHER KELLY is the film critic forthe Fort Worth Star-Telegram in Texas.