The Baggage Carousel

If you ever want to study human behaviour in its purest, most desperate form, skip the psychology textbooks and spend an hour at a luggage carousel.

There’s a particular brand of hope and despair that only exists in that ring of rotating anxiety. It begins when the first bag tumbles onto the belt — battered, clinging to dignity — and a wave of people instinctively surge forward, as if the mere act of standing closer will summon their suitcase faster. It never does. It just creates a tense huddle of trolley-wielding gladiators, each convinced they’re moments away from freedom. That little yellow line that you’re not supposed to pass, that you confident put your bit toe over in an act of rebellion, that slowly shuffles more and more over the line until your pretty much stood on top of the carousel.

And there’s always, always, one box.

A sad, sagging cardboard box, heavily cling-filmed within an inch of its life, doing endless laps around the belt like a contestant in a particularly cruel game show. No one ever claims it. It just keeps going, gathering suspicious glances. I’m half convinced the airport just has a stack of emergency mystery boxes they chuck on for atmosphere. “Quick, they're getting restless — release the box!”

We joined the carousel vigil with cautious optimism. At this stage of a holiday, hope still flickers. Maybe your bag will be first. Maybe, against all odds, your battered case will come gliding down the chute like a hero returning from war.

It never is.

The early bags always belong to people who somehow move faster through customs, through passport control, through life itself. They swoop in, snatch their immaculate luggage, and vanish, leaving the rest of us behind to start second-guessing everything. 
Did we stand in the wrong spot? Is the belt magic? Should we have done a little dance to summon it?

As time dragged on, more bags made their grand appearance, parading around the little black runway before disappearing behind the curtain — only to reappear again, like a low-budget magic trick.
 It’s like they know we’re watching.


"And for my next trick, I shall almost be yours... and then vanish again!"

We watched entire wardrobes in suitcase form go past: a turquoise hard-shell, a floral fabric thing from 1992, a monster of a bag held together by duct tape and hope, an offensively orange duffel. It became a full fashion show of questionable luggage design. 
Eric, meanwhile, watched in growing dismay. After twenty minutes of this, he was looking at the carousel like it personally owed him money.

And then — finally — after what felt like the gestational period of an elephant, we spotted it. 
Eric’s suitcase.

Battle-worn. Slightly faded. Recognisable to anyone who had ever travelled with him. It approached majestically, rotating in slow motion, as if it knew it had made us suffer and was now relishing its moment of triumph.

“I don’t think that’s mine,” Eric said, staring at it like it was a crime against humanity.

“It is,” I said, already stepping forward.

“No, I really don’t think it is.”

It was.

But by now, events were escalating. Nothing had happened for a while. No new bags, no movement of the carousel. After a good while of listening to various different passengers give their take on the baggaging handling protocols at major European airports, a grating announcement crackled overhead:
“ATTENTION: Flight BZ394 from Manchester, baggage has been moved to Carousel 4.”

That wasn't the plan. I had my space - a good one too, even if grabbing a case would have been near enough impossible given how close everyone was stood. Then, a moment of silence, followed switfly by absolute, unfiltered chaos.

What had been a mild, polite gathering suddenly turned into the running of the bulls. 
Trolleys banged into ankles. People abandoned their spots at the current carousel mid-bag retrieval. Someone physically sprinted — luggage straps flapping wildly behind them — toward the next belt.
 A man shouted “I KNEW IT!” at no one in particular, as if the carousel had personally betrayed him. Nobody else knew it, so I'm going to guess he didn't either.

Eventually, we gathered our things, or in Eric’s case begrudgingly accepted his very obvious suitcase, and shuffled towards Carousel 4, where the whole grim cycle began again: The Wait.

The Wait is different now, though. It’s heavier. Darker. You’ve already been burned once. You know now that bags can take hours, that announcements are lies, that the cling-filmed box may outlast you all.

At Carousel 4, things were somehow even worse. 
Now, multiple flights' worth of exhausted travellers were mashed together, elbowing for space, watching yet another parade of bags go around.
 The cling-filmed box had migrated here too.
 How?
 Was it sentient?

Time lost meaning. I was starting to forget what my own bag looked like, like I half-expected it to roll past wearing a tiny sombrero out of sheer defiance.

Eventually, mercifully, we spotted the rest of our luggage. Dad lunged for his suitcase with the reflexes of a man reclaiming a stolen treasure. I dragged mine off with a sound that can only be described as “dignified grunting.” Eric, still shaking his head at the injustice of having to collect a suitcase he’d apparently never seen before in his life, muttering something about buying new luggage - a conversation we'd had for at least the last three holiday.
 He has, of course, been using the same battered case for years.
 He will continue to do so until it disintegrates.

And so, after only three thousand years trapped in the carousel dimension, battered by confusion, cling-filmed mysteries, and Eric’s suitcase amnesia, we finally made it out.

Bags intact. Spirits… slightly frayed.
 Holiday spirit... still clinging on, like that box on the belt, refusing to give up.