Back from our Italian break, I’ve come to realise there’s a very particular kind of optimism that hits just before a family holiday. Before we left the UK I pictured myself, breezy and glowing, cruising across Europe in a sun-drenched haze with nothing but a tote bag, an Italian phrasebook, and a serene smile.
And then reality arrived. With bulging zips, 39°C forecasts, and a tweenager who announced they had to bring their gaming laptop or their entire world would dissolve (it didn’t).
Here’s how packing for a European road trip actually goes.
It started, of course because I’m a Notion Ambassador, with a beautifully structured Notion checklist. I felt organised. Competent. Entirely ready to drive across a continent like some sort of linen-clad travel documentary host.
This fantasy lasted right up until I remembered we were leaving at 4am to allow for “contingency time” (i.e. general chaos), which meant waking up at 2am—approximately half an hour after we went to bed.
The list, once colour-coded and smug, was now scribbled across four separate pages with cryptic entries like “green thing” and “don’t forget the…”. I no longer knew what was packed, pending or a coffee smudge.
Europe was in the grips of a heatwave and we were road-tripping through France to Rome—one of the hottest places on the planet—before heading into the Italian mountains for some wholesome hiking and mountain biking.
The likelihood we’d actually do that? Somewhere close to zero. At this point we were more likely to spontaneously combust somewhere on the Autostrade and spend the rest of the holiday fighting other tourists over one square centimetre of shade.
Still, ever optimistic, we packed for every scenario: Summer scorchers, alpine downpours, and the kind of cool Instagrammable evenings that haven’t existed since 2019 (if ever).
Then came the “just in case” panic:
European travel adapters (for things we’d forgotten to pack)
Enough snacks to open a small petrol station
A first aid kit the Red Cross would be proud of
Enough sun cream to cover a small whale
Meanwhile, I was quietly trying to smuggle in every art supply I’ve ever owned—because the light in Liguria (or wherever we’re passing through at 75mph) is going to be just so, and I simply must capture it. Realistically, I knew I’d probably end up doodling my name 50 times in crayon while someone ate crisps over my shoulder.
The kids packed: less electronic devices than they wanted, noise-cancelling headphones (to drown out ‘Dad’ music) and an eye roll for every parental suggestion.
We offered a digital detox. They stared at us like we’d proposed living off-grid with only goats for company.
We said we’d leave at 4am, cool and composed.
At 4:07, someone couldn’t find their sunglasses (they were on my head), someone else needed a last-minute loo trip (ahem, also me), and the car resembled a mobile skip.
I was also mildly concerned that our language app had only taught us how to say, “My neighbour works in a small office with two balconies,” but not “Where is your loo?” So if you saw a sweaty British family crossing their legs and miming in broken French or Italian, it was probably us.
Nevertheless we finally set off, fuelled by strong coffee and mild hysteria, and so the holiday began. Not with a baguette and a lake view, but with a melted cereal bar and someone shouting, “Has anyone seen the passports?!” while sitting on them.
Bon voyage, fellow travellers. May your cool bags stay cold, your teens tolerate sightseeing, and your Google Translate signal never drop. More on our Italian sojourn (and a travel sketchbook tour) soon.
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