Things

“So much for my preparations. It will be seen that if one is traveling simply for the sake of traveling and not for the purpose of impressing one's fellow passengers, the problem of baggage becomes a very simple one.”
From: “A Proposal to Girdle the Earth”, by Nellie Bly, stunt journalist, girl boss, proto-feminist and patron saint of solo travelers, who set out in 1890 to beat Jules Verne’s record and circumnavigate the world in fewer than 80 days with only a “hand-satchel”.

Traveling light is not my forte. I have always gotten a lot of shocked looks from hotel receptionists, customs officials and slightly suspicious hosts. “Staying long?”, they say, sometimes in jest, often not. They just didn’t get it. How could I make it clear that my things are like little chromosomes? Each with its own story; all of them together equaling me. 

Over time, the things I lugged around the globe stopped being a comfort and became instead, quite literally, a drag. It’s hard to feel burdened when the entire contents of your life fit into an ’88 Golf. That was me, a few weeks after graduating college, on my way to my master’s program in Vermont. I already had 16 moves under my belt at that point, most under the direct command of my mother, Army wife extraordinaire. She taught me that you always unpack EVERYTHING, no matter how brief your stay. And that the careful placement of tchotchkes, throw pillows, picture frames and lamps (so many lamps!) can make any house a home. Even circa 1940s officer’s housing or, in my case, a Middlebury dorm room.

So, while others arrived on campus with nothing but an EastPak and a duffle, I ran up and down the stairs with foam-backed art prints and batik tapestries, dog-eared copies of Kundera and Brecht, a boom box and a teetering pile of mix tapes. This proverbial room of one’s own was not without contradictions. Yes, I will hang posters of Monet and Marx side by side. Yes, I will binge drink and pursue a healthier life as a vegetarian. Yes, I will pair Gregorian chants with the Violent Femmes, pink linen with black leather. I will be the curator of the things that define and differentiate me, stacking and twirling into a double helix of my own design.

Since that summer in Vermont, I have had 9 Umzüge, 3 moves, 2 déménagements, and 1 trasloco. I added a few cubic meters to the load each time, along with at least one new Ikea bookcase and a couple of kids. Now all four of us were accumulating toys and trinkets, jackets and shoes, books and hobbies. Whatever cosmic glue was keeping me and my things together started slowly losing its bond. Things collected in untidy piles, gathered dust in neglect and dislocated with maddening frequency. Taken all together, the out-of-place objects alone probably exceeded the cubic volume of an ’88 Golf. I couldn’t even travel light within my own damn house.

Now that the kids are gone and their rooms are like museums of their younger selves, I sometimes feel I can hardly breathe for all the things. It has me fantasizing about tiny house living, eyeing half-empty skips with envy, pricing high-torque shredders. Surely as an empty nester, other people’s things will eventually cease to be my problem. I can only, says Stephen Covey, be responsible for my own circle of control. Would I be able to survive with less? Who am I without thousands of things? Would traveling light—if only to my 35 houses—inspire the carefree, weightless abandon I’m after?

There is really only one way to find out:

The plan is, for my first solo adventure in decades, to take nothing but a single carry-on and a backpack. For four weeks on the road. Different climate zones. Midwest diners and Manhattan hotspots. Three pairs of shoes, max. For two days now, I keep trying—and failing—to select a small set of separates that are comfortable, practical and stylish in equal measure. A capsule wardrobe that encapsulates me. For a sack of clothes, that is a big ask.

And one that is ultimately pointless. If I asked you to name the outfit someone was wearing yesterday, could you? To assume that anyone. Anywhere. EVER. is paying more than fleeting attention to the color of your shoes or the frizz of your hair or visible panty lines is to misjudge human nature. That is not to say clothes don’t matter. I love choosing outfits and accessories. Everyone should always wear what makes them feel good or creative or cozy or sexy or silly or whatever. The catch is you have to be dead sure you are doing it only for yourself. Is that smile in the mirror the joy of creative expression—the same one you have when a sentence hits just so?—or are you already practicing your “this-old-thing?” dance of false modesty? Deep down, you know.

So, just like Nellie Bly those many years ago (plus ça change…), I want to worry less about creating the (right) first impressions and see if I can enjoy just being me. In an authentic, unapologetic way. In a way that doesn’t have to appeal to everyone—or anyone, for that matter. Being an acquired taste has its advantages. It is a lot less exhausting than the alternative. It frees up head space for curiosity, for meaningful engagement with the world. It might even bring me closer to answering the question: If things don’t define me, what does? And that is precisely what this trip is all about.