2 minute read
SELF Made
Of course, we picked up souvenirs along the way—a skirt from Bangkok’s Chatuchak Market for me, a canvas backpack from a street stall in Taiwan for Read. But our few belongings became talismans, and to
replace them with fresh things for the sheer sake of having something new seemed, for the first time in my life, absolutely absurd. For our final two months, we wound through Europe. In Paris, in Rome, in the cities known for style, I proudly wore my Indian tunic and now-beloved Japanese sneakers. As we sat beside Parisians cloaked in Chanel, I didn’t feel a spark of envy or insecurity. Instead, I felt confident: Our eclectic appearance hinted at a life well-traveled. Our things weren’t fancy or expensive, but they had taken us across miles and had memories and stories attached to them. On our last night, we went to an outdoor café and spent the rest of our budget on Chardonnay and Camembert. As we boarded our flight home to America, I actually mourned retiring my trusty suitcase, for the liberation it had delivered.
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Growing up, I remember hearing this advice: If you find something you really like, buy two. Until last year, I found this phrase logical; there was wisdom in its gratuitousness, a lesson on being doubly prepared. But in each new country we visited, there was an overwhelming reason to reject this kind of thinking, and it wasn’t just the shock of seeing people with next to nothing. So much of my learning, I realize now, hinged on that suitcase. It gifted me a type of mandatory freedom, an exercise in active living. Its 22-by-14-inch dimensions forced me to focus on the intangible, the meaningful interactions that had no material width or weight.
When I returned to New York last winter and pulled my belongings from storage, I was astounded to see the discrepancy between what I owned and what I actually needed. The sheer volume of nonsense—the shoes that had been worn just once, the collection of identical black blouses—went against everything I’d learned from my time on the road. As I began to pack for our new, and smaller, Manhattan apartment, I adhered to the same criteria I’d used to assemble my suitcase. Only the necessary items would make the cut. (A blanket from my mother came with us. A machine that turns zucchini into pasta did not.) Purged of my stuff, there’s nothing that I’ve missed.
A year after the trip, I still love sales, keep a drawer full of jeans and occasionally complain that I have nothing to wear. There is a subtle pull toward my old stockpiling ways, but mostly I crave the simplicity of my suitcase. When I open my tiny closet and see it sitting there, empty and waiting, I’m reminded that for nine months, three seasons and 17 countries, it was so much more than enough.
