Personal Best

and a single overseas flight, I felt tidal waves of Western jealousy. I was stuck with my one gray dress (for seven more months!). My most elegant shoes were blue Tevas. Without my regular assortment of possessions, my piles of stuff, I was insecure, my mind unsettled by my appearance. I compared myself to others, was shy in front of the camera; I began to fear that the carry-ons would inhibit our trip in a way I had not predicted.

Two weeks before we left India, Read and I received a surprising invitation to the wedding of a local Goan prince we had met by chance, over a few drinks, in a hotel lobby. But you’ll have to dress up, our inviter warned; and as we began to hesitate, thinking of our suitcases, our new friend insisted, leading the way to a solution. In a small wooden shop lit up by jewel-colored fabrics, a young attendant dressed us in hand-dyed silk tunics, Read in stark white pants with 6-foot drawstrings and me in a shimmering dupatta—a scarf I draped around my shoulders for the special occasion. After a month of feeling disheveled, I was struck by my polished reflection.

As we watched the new couple circle a pit of holy fire and sat beneath trellises of marigolds, we felt we had stumbled upon a new trick: We could buy things to replace items in our suitcases. In India our purchasing power was enormous (the wedding outfits cost less than 50 U.S. dollars), and the dormant consumer in me wanted everything I saw at the beautiful bazaars. But purchasing something new meant giving up something old to make room in my suitcase: an Indian kurta for a basic T-shirt, handmade leather sandals for a pair of flip-flops. Unless the item was better than what I already owned (more durable, more versatile), I couldn’t validate the purchase.

A month later, we landed in Japan and found ourselves freezing. In stylish, trend-chasing Tokyo, our tropical clothing made us look like idiots. I needed a decent jacket, but I was more enticed by the expensive cashmere sweaters and leather pumps in the window displays of Ginza. I dragged Read through a dozen department stores, searching for items to quiet the voice, but the price tags were astronomical. As much as I craved material security, I knew I couldn’t abandon our budget.

So instead, we found a thrift store and each chose one warm outfit and a pair of (neon!) sneakers. Without the distraction of shopping on my mind, I turned my attention to what we could do, seek and explore. For the next month and a half, we trekked to Shinto shrines and through 16th-century castles. We wandered the grounds of classical Zen gardens. By the time we moved on, I was more interested in ancient temples than strappy sandals.

As we crossed into Southeast Asia, I only grew stronger in my resolve. I could buy a new dress or we could rent a motorcycle for two days and take the winding road up the Mae Hong Song and see waterfalls set against a dusty red sky. I began to think of commodities in these terms. A swimsuit was the equivalent of a boat ride to an outer Thai island or a week of tuk-tuk rides or a cooking class. I realized I had everything I needed to enjoy my days: sneakers for hikes, a scarf to cover my head or my shoulders, a coat to shield me from the afternoon rainstorms.