My Grandmother’s Vera Bradley Tote Is Now My Favorite Travel Bag

When the first of my grandmothers to die did so just over three years ago, I got her Vera Bradley tote bag. It was in the days after her funeral, possibly even the very next day, when cousins from out of town remained in town, that our freshly-widowed grandfather invited all of us over to go through her things together. He rightfully predicted that this would be at once a bonding experience for his far-flung progeny as well as a quick and collaborative way for him to distribute belongings of hers for which he had no use to those who might actually wear rather than merely appreciate them. Nobody could be upset, nobody could say, “Hey, where’s that Chanel jacket?” or harumph, “I didn’t get anything I wanted,” if we all did it together.

The thing about my grandmother is that she was a very small woman—her middle name, aptly, was Bird. We often joked, and then feared as she got older and frailer and sicker, that she might blow away in a strong gust of wind. She was intrepid in spirit—a school principal and then president of my hometown’s Board of Education—and intrepidly stylish, her red hair always immaculately coiffed and contrasted deliciously by some pop of color or another. She loved blue. This closet burst with clothing that was as fabulous and well-made as it was small, and it soon became clear that most of her garments could be taken and worn only by the sveltest of my cousins—there was one suede and shearling trench that I could have deluded myself into snagging but it was tight at the shoulders and would never fit over more than one light and skintight layer. The beautiful thing about a tote bag is that no shoulder is too big or small.

My choice of the quilted Vera Bradley bag was a dejected one, a “well, I guess I’ll take this.” It was one of a handful of bags I left with like a squirrel, just so that I could say I got something. It was actually part of a set with the matching makeup kit and the like going to my sister. I admit, I moved from Connecticut to New York City and did not use it for years. Vera Bradley is loaded for many, ubiquitous but increasingly disdained as my formative years progressed for its girly garishness—mention the name and expect a scoff or other strong reaction in the negative. The uniformly bold patterns clashed and were therefore ugly, I for one felt strongly in this and I was not alone. And while the bags were preppy in spirit, they weren’t quite so in appearance. Cringe that can’t be categorized. What to do with Vera Bradley in the roaring 2020s?

Things changed in March. I was packing for a trip to Italy. My usual personal item, a canvas tote, seemed a sad and uninspired companion, one that I wanted to leave in college. Not to mention that this was a big trip, seven nights in four different cities, and I needed something more capacious and nuanced (as in, interior pockets). And there was Vera, on the top shelf of my closet, visible only because her straps hung sadly down from her deflated core. This particular Vera Bradley bag has a cornflower blue base on the exterior; it almost looks like denim, with a teardrop motif in white, yellow, and red. The bag’s top and bottom are marked by a red stripe over which a floral pattern crawls—the sage green of the vines, the blooms themselves yellow and blue. Inside is mustard yellow with a floral of its own and little pockets all the way round.

I grabbed it by the handles, pulled it down, filled it up, and brought it out. Vera’s return to public life was, I must say, a huge success. Fellow tourists, Italians, everyone wanted a piece of her. “Is that Vera Bradley?” and “I love your bag!” were two refrains heard so often by this writer that I started to wonder if anybody could see or care about the human carrying it. The joyful maximalism, the explosion of color and print—the bag was Italy, and Italy was the bag. One woman in my tour group saw me from afar, journaling on the steps of Perugia’s Cattedrale San Lorenzo during a bit of downtime. She snuck a picture and sent it to me later—there’s the Gothic architecture and there’s me, but all eyes in this picture go to the bag.