One bag, packed the same way every night. An inventory.
Everything our practice is, materially speaking, fits in one bag. A soft holdall, unbranded, the size any traveller carries through a lobby without drawing a glance — which is the first design requirement and the reason it will never be larger. Inside, it is packed the same way every single night, because at two in the morning, in an unfamiliar room lit by one bedside lamp, nobody should be searching for anything.
Linens are the heart of it. Every booking gets its own fresh set, sealed, brought by us and removed by us — the hotel's bedding is never worked on directly and never touched by oil. Used linens travel home in a separate waterproof compartment that keeps the bag's two worlds apart. This single discipline does more for the leave-no-trace standard than everything else combined: the room's own textiles end the night exactly as housekeeping left them.
Oils, two bottles: a neutral, unscented base that suits nearly everyone, and one lightly scented alternative offered, never assumed — a hotel room is small and scent is a decision the guest should make. Cold oil is an amateur's error, so the first thing that happens in the bathroom is a bottle standing in the basin under the hot tap while the linens go down. Sixty seconds, and the first touch of the session is warm.
The folded waterproof mat comes next, flat against the bag's back panel. Not every technique needs it; the ones that do need it absolutely, and it opens out to protect a bed or carpet completely. Around it, the supporting cast: large towels, a compact speaker for guests who want music (silence is the default; the speaker waits to be invited), the card reader, a water bottle, phone and charger — the charger because a dead phone at 4am is an operational failure, not an inconvenience.
What is not in the bag tells you as much. No massage table: a folding table does not survive five flights of canal-house stairs, does not cross a lobby invisibly, and is not how this work is done — the bed and the mat are better suited to it in every room we visit. No branding on anything, down to the linen bags. Nothing that would look out of place spilled from any traveller's luggage.
Total weight, packed: light enough for the stairs of the old city, because it has to be. The bag is repacked identically after every booking, in the room, in about ninety seconds. By the time the guest is asleep, the practice has folded itself back into hand luggage — which, in the end, is what we are: a complete establishment that arrives at your door and leaves no evidence it was ever anything but a visitor.