My grandfather left Cuba when Castro came into power and literally left everything. He had two suitcases and two kids and showed up in New Jersey and waited for my uncle to meet up with him. Imagine - there were no cell phones back then!
The tempo is the suitcase. If the suitcase is too small, everything is completely wrinkled. If the tempo is too fast, everything becomes so scrambled you can't understand it.
The greatest fear that haunts this city is a suitcase bomb, nuclear or germ. Many people carry small gas masks. The masses here seem to be resigned to the inevitable, believing an attack of major proportions will happen.
It's great to just disappear, grab a suitcase, switch the answering machine on and just go somewhere else.
Sometimes I have a nervous breakdown over my suitcase - over socks - because your brain just goes, 'I just can't pack again. I can't.' You're looking at your suitcase going, 'I'm in five countries in two weeks, and it's four different seasons.' That's when my brain melts.