Traveling Light
from the archives
“He who would travel happily must travel light.” Antoine de Saint-Exupery
“Everything in a suitcase. I want to be able to fit everything I own in a suitcase.” These words actually came out of my mouth, pack rat from birth, queen of creature comforts, saver of every book and every favourite magazine she’s ever read and even some she has not read. The gal who lugs a thirty-pound military rucksack filled with books and an assortment of writing implements everywhere she goes. Yes, I actually said those words to my friend Stephanie over breakfast one Sunday morning many years ago now. We were exploring the things that weigh us down, the baggage we had both seemed to accumulate, emotional and physical, over our forty-something years on planet earth. I recall some delving into “Man, wouldn’t be great to join the Peace Corps, sell everything, have all of our baggage reduced to a portable pile?” See, we were both going through the ending of our marriages, and there’s no time like that time to reassess the loads.
“You know what, Stephanie? I want to pare down my life. Everything in a suitcase. I want to be able to fit everything I own in a suitcase.” I said that. Yep.
Fast-forward about seventeen years and it’s pretty apparent that I haven’t made much progress toward that fleeting desire. Nor do I really crave that ascetic sort of life anymore. I think that when your living situation is full of anxiety it’s pretty normal to wish it all away and have a clean start, but now that I’ve settled into my own life I’m content to wake up next to my sweetheart, Rick, surrounded by hundreds of books, a houseful of cats, a basement full of paraphernalia and boxes that have not been opened in, oh, twenty-some years. Actually, my blood pressure raises a bit when I think too long about the basement, but there’s a door I can keep closed and I’m really seasoned at “out of sight out of mind.” You get the idea; I’m getting along swell with my stuff these days. Still, I would like to clear out some of the nonsense and simplify. And I endlessly put it off.
Right after high-school graduation I went off to Europe. I was accepted into a two-year college in Lugano, Switzerland and my mom traveled over with me a month early so we could ride the train through France and Italy before I had to check in at school. I remember that month of travel as some of the most carefree and unburdened days of my life. We each took a rucksack containing a pair of pants, a pair of shorts, a couple t-shirts, a sundress, and a few pair of underwear. Basic toiletries. We had very little on our backs, and we traveled without a formal agenda. Paris, Rome, Florence, Venice, Sienna, Napoli, the island of Capri and many other lesser known places were our destinations, always finding a comfortable albergo, or pensione to spend the night.
I do remember staying in a fabulous grand hotel in Florence, walking distance from the Arno River and from the Uffizi Gallery, and in Paris we happened upon a quaint and quintessentially French hotel, Hotel Arizona, complete with windows that opened into a lush courtyard in the centre and a persnickety concierge of a certain age. We weren’t slumming it by any means, but we were not carrying the goods to “dress for dinner,” either. No matter, we went aboard the Orient Express in our cotton sundresses, the Louvre and the Cathedral of Notre Dame in shorts, and we met Pope John Paul II at the Vatican in wet t-shirts after spending hours in the pouring rain waiting for him arrive. He didn’t seem to be bothered by it; he still blessed our rosaries. We were accepted wherever we went, and we chose places that seemed real and local and not full of fashion rules and five-star palates. And every night, no matter where we rested our heads, we did our laundry in the sink or bathtub and hung it out the window to dry, just like the Italian nonnas did. Pretty simple living.
While I learned the art of the road trip from motor home adventures with my grandma, I learned train travel from that special month with my mom, hopping aboard the rails, ending up someplace new, trolling side streets for a cozy place to eat, always finding our way. No baggage needed. It exhausts me when I see some people pack for trips, several suitcases full of perfectly matched outfits, from earring to espadrilles, for each occasion, enough underwear to have a clean pair every day. I know some people really have fun with all of that and I do get it, but even the thought of it weighs me down, restricts the freedom of what travel really means to me---to bumble along where the day might take me, or even just stay put in one place for a while if I really fall in love with it. And if I change my mind on a whim, just grab my rucksack and fly, never a worry as to where I’ll store my luggage, no checking bags. Everything I need is strapped to my shoulders.
I’ve wondered why it is that this way of getting around appeals to me more than the fine hotel and first-class way of travel that some folks dream about. You know, the kind where the resort staff meets you at the door with a warm towel soaked in orchid water to refresh you before being shown to your palatial home away from home, champagne and chocolate covered strawberries awaiting. I’ve been really fortunate to enjoy some luxurious resorts and hotels while on family vacations, and I’ve appreciated every second and every last amenity on them. I also love my cozy creature comforts at home, but when I go off on the road alone, or to explore someplace new, what I really want is the dirt. I’m looking for a different feeling from the one I have at home, and maybe it is a more ascetic experience I’m after when I leave the homestead and want to get lost from it all.
Monasteries come to mind. They are my favourite places to stay, mostly because they are usually in gorgeous rural landscapes to explore, with bare bones accommodations, simple food and the price is never more than sixty dollars a night, including all three meals. They are also pretty safe for a female traveling alone. The first monastery I stayed at was in 1984 in Novgorod, Russia. It was centuries old, an Orthodox Christian convent, and my room was four stucco walls, a dark wooden bench and a table, a pristine ceramic sink, and a small wooden bed topped with a very thin mattress, an even thinner pillow, two neatly folded cotton sheets, one scratchy towel and a woolen blanket. There was a crucifix on the wall and an icon of the Virgin Mary, but other than that the only decor was the gorgeous view out the window with a sill about eighteen-inches thick that held a Bible in a language I couldn’t read. Oh, and there was a small lamp on the table. Sound inviting? Well, it was. It was ancient and well-scrubbed and the walls were breathing with history. I could have stayed there for a very long time.
Think of the time freed up when all you have is a few items of clothing to worry about keeping relatively clean, only a few surfaces to dust, nothing but your books to put away and a simple bed to make, or not. This is a feeling I enjoy, and one that I rarely have when I’m at home. At a monastery you are responsible for your own bed-making, tidying up, and the like. And I prefer it that way. But there is such a freedom in not being surrounded by the trappings of your life, or luxuries, but still having the rhythms of taking care of yourself and what’s around you instead of being waited on hand and foot. A week in a monastery is about the most relaxing dream vacation I can imagine. I might never get back to the ancient ones in Russia and Europe, but there are three to visit within a couple hours of my front door: Mt. Saviour near Elmira, Mt. Ireneaus near Cuba, and The Abbey of the Genesee near Geneseo. These may be right around the block, but the experience is in essence the same---bare bones, plenty of freedom.
As a child, and even now, some of my favourite stories were about the homesteading life of our prairie settlers. Laura Ingalls Wilder was my hero, and I could probably draw the little house in the big woods with a blindfold on. Four chinked log walls and a loft where Ma & Pa slept, Mary and Laura tucked into their straw bed together, covered in many quilts to hold in the warmth. A fire in the hearth, beans simmering, maybe with a ham hock and some onions. Two dresses, one kept clean for church and one for school and chores. Up with the sunrise and to bed at dark with tallow candles to read by from your few treasured books. I’ve never lived this way, but why was it so appealing to me then and even now? I recently read a wonderful novel called “The Snow Child” that was recollective of a modern day, grown-up “Little House on the Prairie.” I was entranced and found myself longing to experience that life, even though I don’t know the first thing about it in the real world. I’m sure it’s the hardest possible way to live, so why does it inhabit my dreamed about life like it does? It all comes back to be unencumbered of “stuff.” I really think so.
From where I sit right now I can see stacks of papers that need tending, books to be shelved, a fifteen-shoe pile-up by the back door (where on earth did I leave that other brown flip-flop?) and dishes waiting to be washed and dried. Surfaces to be dusted and cob webs that I may never get to, tumbleweeds of cat hair in the corners and pillows askew on the sofa amidst a tangle of blankets. Drawers so ripe with miscellany that it’s a miracle they close, and a closet I don’t dare attempt to open in fear of being the victim of an avalanche of yarn I couldn’t possibly live long enough to knit. And don’t even get me started on the basement or the garage. If I were to decide to get on board with everything fitting in a suitcase, I’d have to _find_ my suitcase first. Seems as though I’m under a load of baggage whether I like it or not.
The fact is, I really don’t like it, but I’m cool with co-existing with the disarray. I’m also at a loss about where to begin. Maybe the kitchen would be a good place to start? I don’t use a quarter of what my cupboards and drawers contain. Nah, I think I’ll send an email to the guest-master at the monastery down near Cuba, New York. A few days in a cabin in the hills with a change of clothes for dinner with the friars sounds just right. I won’t even need a suitcase.
This was from a few years ago, and I have not made much progress. Tell me, where are you on the luminous thread between too much stuff and minimalism? Would love to hear.
I resonate with this essay! So many of our things come from loved ones and so are hard to part with. Especially handmade or art items. Our home is warm, inviting, and hopefully interesting visually. I like the idea of minimalism but can't quite get there with so many things carrying memories.
After my mom died, my dad decided to give most of his possessions away and live like a "monk". Nearly 8 months later he realized he hated living in a home with very few warm and memorable things so went around to family members and asked for some of his stuff back. Less that when he started, but enough to satisfy the need to live with reminders of one's history.
Dear Kateri,
Thanks for sharing some of your fascinating journey! As for your question, there is an acronym in the quilting world (SABLE). It stands for Stash Accumulated Beyond Life Expectancy. It basically means I am surrounded by fabric, which brings me much joy.
On the other hand, I now volunteer at a church thrift store. I have used this as an opportunity to go through my house and find lots of things to donate, which also brings much joy.
It's a delicate balance!