Baggage

I work in a store that sells bags. They sit in their glass cases, transparently displayed for a buyer, for the next middle-aged woman to catch a glimpse of self-worth in this small hunk of fabric. Some are beautiful, I can’t deny that, with their soft leather straps and shiny gold hardware, begging to be thrown on a shoulder and formed to an armpit. I’ve never been a big buyer. Ten years after I stopped playing sports, my friends made fun of me for still carrying my navy blue, tattered Adidas bag. Their Vera Bradleys sat on the floor next to mine, with their matching cosmetic bags bursting of complex flower designs, spilling lip gloss and mascara. Mine sat limply behind the sofa, hiding the remnants of old shin guards.

I carried that Adidas bag over my shoulder as I deliriously walked through the arrival gates to meet my French host mom. I didn’t know at the time it would be one of the least stressful years of my life. As soon as we reached her apartment, she led me down a long hallway. The carpet was a boring brown, the walls a typical antique white, and at the very end was the door to my bedroom. A simple room, not more than 10x12 square feet with a short single bed, covered by a sheet and a blue duvet. Next to that sat a small brown box, that worked as a bedside table, with just enough surface for a lamp and my journal. I wrote in it every night. I cannot forget the charming wooden desk, with its matching chair. Here was where I spent late nights, ruffling through my French dictionary, trying to read Metamorphose, and learn the use of le subjonctif. My suitcase of clothes, folded neatly on the shelves in my closest, shared space with the few items that hung. The window was by far the highlight; a tall escape to the outside world, with its delicate wooden shutters and its heavy French doors that opened outward overlooking families gardens and backyards. Most evenings, the sky was pink, the stones dark with rain, echoing the muffled voices of couples walking to a restaurant.

Back home, I walk into a department store. I cannot bear the fluorescent lights that beat down over the aisles and aisles of stuff. Within each aisle are shelves, and within the shelves are compartments. The CEO’s see dollar signs. I see too much. I see an abundance of things, things that are needless, were needless to me in my sufficient single room. I often stand in the middle of a department store, and try to take in the actual amount of “stuff” in my sight. I think “stuff” is an overused word, but it is perfect in this sense. The shelves are stuffed, the aisles are stuffed, the big box stores are stuffed. My head is stuffed.

I'd be lying if I said that I wasn’t a consumer. I wake up each morning, push down my cotton sheets, turn on my coffee machine, and start up my computer. I am a privileged American, who has conveniences at my fingertips, all only a car ride or swipe of a credit card away. I often think back to a corner of the world, where even though I was alone living in another country, speaking a different language, immersing myself in my studies and hoping to understand at least 75% of what my host mom said, I was not stressed. There was nothing to clutter my mind, to distract my ripening thoughts, to spoil the sensation of wandering through a maze of cobblestone streets. I had a duffle bag of clothes, a couple pairs of shoes, and my books. I had never known it could be that simple.

I long to hang five shirts on the drying rack next to my window once again. As the sun dried them, I would sit and wait. I’d watch the mid morning air carry them and gaze into the ray that warmed them. They could all fit into one suitcase, one backpack, even one handbag.

Maybe it was the wine. But I keep coming back to that feeling years later, when I de-clutter my life, of fitting all my stuff in a suitcase. And when I think like this, and (don’t) buy like this, I wake up in my little French room. I think everyone should spend some time there.