By Rahil Gangjee
You know you’ve been living out of a suitcase for too long when the hotel staff in three different countries greet you with, “Welcome back, Mr. Gangjee. Same room?”
I wish I were exaggerating, but this is the reality of life as a touring professional golfer. Somewhere along the way, our actual postal address became less important than our luggage tag. Most of us on Tour – especially the journeymen, the grinders, the sleep-on-an-airport-chair veterans – know exactly what it means to be semi-permanently displaced, passport always on standby, and socks always slightly confused about which time zone they’re in.
Now, don’t get me wrong — I’m not complaining. (Okay, maybe a little.) I love what I do. Golf has given me the world — literally. But when you’re on the road for 30-odd weeks a year, certain truths begin to emerge. And the most important of them? That suitcase isn’t just a piece of luggage — it’s a way of life.
The Tour Life Starter Pack
Here’s what most people don’t realize: pro golf isn’t all private jets and luxury suites. Unless you’re a top-10 player (with a yacht and a support team that includes someone just to carry your Bluetooth speaker), you’re booking budget flights, praying your golf bag survives baggage handling, and measuring hotel rooms based on whether your foam roller can roll freely or not.
Packing becomes an art form. You learn to fold things with military precision. You’ve got socks for grass, socks for gym, socks for fancy media events (which no one tells you is formal until you’re already in your t-shirt and tournament cap). You travel with two belts, three gloves, and zero margin for error.
And yet — somehow — we all forget something. Always. One week it’s a rain jacket, and you’re on the wettest links course in Asia. Another week it’s the charger for your rangefinder, and suddenly you’re eyeballing 185 yards like it’s a bar bet.
The seasoned pros on tour know how to adapt. One friend — let’s call him “Anirban but not Lahiri” — once forgot his golf shoes and tried to sneak into a round wearing sneakers. By the sixth hole, he had blisters, a limp, and a newfound respect for arch support.
Airports, Our Natural Habitat
Professional golfers probably spend more time in airports than in their own beds. We know the shortcuts at immigration, which cafes serve halfway-decent coffee, and which international terminals have free showers (hint: the one in Seoul even has heated toilet seats — it’s a game-changer).
Ask any of us, and we’ll tell you which luggage carousel takes the longest (Jakarta) and which one has carpet that looks like it’s seen things (also Jakarta).
There’s something uniquely bonding about seeing a fellow pro sprawled across metal chairs at 2 a.m., clutching a neck pillow and a look of existential regret. It’s not glamorous — it’s just the grind.
Don’t get me started on luggage weight. That weighing scale at check-in? It’s a battlefield.
Once, I was five kilos over. I knew I was over. So, with all the grace of a guilty schoolboy, I casually slipped the toe of my shoe under the scale, nudged it upward just a touch, and voilà — 5 kilos gone. The lady behind the counter just gave me a look. She knew. But she let it slide. Maybe it was pity. Or maybe she just respected the hustle.
Hotel Living: The Illusion of Stability
You start developing relationships with hotel chains like they’re exes you’re trying to stay friendly with.
“Ah yes, this one has a decent gym but smells faintly of lemongrass and despair.”
“That one gives you a fruit basket if you pretend you’re checking in for your honeymoon.”
The real challenge, though, is routine. You can’t build one. You try — you really do. You tell yourself you’ll stretch every night, eat clean, wake up early and visualize success. But then it’s midnight in Korea, and you’re surviving on instant noodles and motivational quotes from Instagram.
Even our diet goes rogue. I once had a week in Vietnam where I ate so many rice rolls I started dreaming in fish sauce. In Japan, another player got so addicted to vending machine sushi that we staged a low-key intervention.
Golf in Every Language
One of the oddest joys of tour life is learning how golf transcends language. I’ve played rounds with caddies who didn’t speak a word of English — but by the ninth hole, we were best friends, communicating entirely in hand gestures, grimaces, and the universal expression for “why did I hit that shot?”
The game is the same, the rituals are familiar — the pre-shot routine, the nervous glances at the leaderboard, the thousand-yard stare after a triple bogey — whether you’re in Thailand, Taipei, or Thiruvananthapuram.
But each country has its quirks. In Korea, fans are incredibly polite. In India, they cheer like it’s a cricket match. In Bangladesh, I once had a gallery that included a cow. No, really — it wandered in, watched two holes, then left, unimpressed.
Suitcase Stories
Ask any touring pro about the weirdest thing in their suitcase, and you’ll get answers like:
- “A 110-volt travel iron I’ve never used.”
- “A tiny massage gun that sounds like a blender being electrocuted.”
- “A lucky banana keychain from 2013. I don’t even remember who gave it to me.”
Our suitcases are like time capsules. Mine has ticket stubs, half-empty sunscreen tubes, and a lingering scent of Deep Heat. I once found a hotel key card in mine from a stay two years ago. I’m still wondering if I checked out.
The Upside
Despite all this chaos — the delayed flights, the missing socks, the strange breakfasts — there’s something magical about living on tour.
You see the sunrise over new cities. You meet kids who look up to you like you’re a superhero (even though you just 3-putted from four feet). You share bad jokes and good meals with fellow golfers who become family. And sometimes, you even win.
You see, for all the madness, this life is a privilege. A weird, wonderful, slightly sweaty privilege.
So, Where’s Home?
The truth is, home isn’t a location anymore. It’s your crew. It’s your golf bag. It’s the call from your family after every round, asking how you played even if they don’t understand a word of golf.
It’s knowing that while you may not unpack your suitcase for weeks, you’re exactly where you belong — somewhere between the tee and a terminal gate, chasing birdies and dodging airline food.
So, here’s to all of us out there, suitcase warriors with dodgy backs and hopeful hearts. May your baggage be light, your drives be straight, and may your hotel bed always have more than one pillow.
And next time you see a slightly disheveled golfer at the airport looking confused — offer him a coffee. Chances are, he’s just trying to remember where he packed his socks.
Rahil Gangjee is a professional golfer, sharing through this column what life on a golf course is like