The Bag That Followed Me Everywhere

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I didn’t plan on buying the Saint Laurent Le 5 À 7 Hobo Bag. It sort of… happened.

It was a rainy Tuesday in Paris, the kind where the cobblestones glisten like they’ve been polished, and the smell of fresh croissants clings to every corner. I was wandering near Place Vendôme, ducking into boutiques to escape the drizzle, when I saw it—slouched elegantly on a shelf, its buttery leather catching the dim boutique light. The salesperson called it “le sac parfait,” and for once, the hype felt real.

First Impressions: Love at First Slouch

I’d never owned a luxury bag before. My usual staples were thrifted totes and a fraying backpack I’d carried since college. But this bag felt different. It wasn’t screaming for attention with logos or glitter. Instead, it whispered—a quiet confidence that matched the city around me.

I hesitated. The price tag made my palms sweat. But then I thought about the year I’d had: late nights finishing my thesis, a breakup that left me rebuilding, and a solo trip to Paris that felt like a dare to finally live. I swiped my card.

The First Adventure: Coffee Stains & Train Rides

Two days later, I boarded a train to Nice. The bag sat beside me, stuffed with a dog-eared novel, a tube of red lipstick, and a half-eaten pain au chocolat. By the time I reached the coast, it had a tiny coffee ring on the bottom (thanks to a wobbly café table). I panicked at first, then laughed. This wasn’t a museum piece—it was meant to be lived in.

In Nice, I wore it slung crossbody as I haggled at flower markets and tucked wild rosemary into its pockets. The gold YSL plaque caught the Mediterranean sun, but no one stared. It blended in, like it belonged.

Back Home: The Daily Companion

Back in New York, the bag became my shadow.

- Monday Meetings: I’d stuff it with granola bars and highlighters, its sleek shape balancing the chaos of my startup job.

- First Dates: It held my phone, a compact, and a single Advil (just in case). One guy called it “cool but not trying too hard.” I kept the bag; didn’t keep the guy.

- Funerals: My grandmother’s service. I tucked her handwritten note into the inner pocket. The bag felt heavy that day.

It weathered subway grime, spilled kombucha, and a snowstorm that left salt stains on the strap. Each mark felt like a diary entry.

The Unexpected Truth: It’s Just a Bag (But Also Not)

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Here’s the thing no one tells you about luxury bags: they’re just… bags. They won’t fix your life or make you someone new. But this one became a quiet reminder of the woman I was becoming—someone brave enough to buy the damn bag, to travel alone, to show up even when life felt messy.

Once, on a crowded Brooklyn sidewalk, a stranger stopped me. “That bag’s seen things,” she said, grinning. I nodded. You have no idea.

Today: Still Slouching, Still Perfect

Three years later, the leather’s softer. The coffee stain’s faded. I’ve since bought other bags—flashier ones, trendier ones—but I always come back to this. It’s been to Tokyo, tucked under airplane seats. It’s held positive pregnancy tests and divorce papers. It’s been my armor on days I didn’t feel brave.

Would I spend $2,300 on it again? I don’t know. But I’d spend double to keep the memories it carries.

The End

(But really, it’s still going.) 

This isn’t a review. It’s a love letter to the things we carry—and the stories they hold.