Minimalists in a mad world - part 1: How adventure travel kills conspicuous consumption

The writer traveling lightly. Photo by David Browne.

In 2007 my husband David and I ditched the American Dream and put our hard-earned savings to good use for a thrilling chance to see the world. For 14 months through 27 countries, we lived out of pretty small backpacks, carrying only what we really needed. Most Americans bring more on a two-week European vacation than we did for our year-plus global journey.

Currently back home in San Francisco, we’re all about downsizing: Getting rid of stuff we don’t need, don’t use, and could honestly live without. We realized a little late in the game that this amounted to roughly 75% of our belongings, which, during the course of our travel and transition periods, collected dust for three years in a 10’ x 15’ storage unit, to the ugly tune of $239 a month.

(Click here for Part 2 of this story.)

Shortly after our 2008 homecoming, we revisited our storage unit to change out our wardrobe for the first time in over a year. We were sick of our trip clothes, and honestly, they were starting to smell. My skin crawled as David heaved the rolling door skyward. We stood there agape, humans facing the alien mother ship, awaiting beam-up to a mountain of material possessions. Was all this really ours? My first instinct was to run, but David strategically blocked my exit with a sack of sweaters, and we got down to business.

Compulsion returned after a mere 10 minutes. I felt myself wanting - dare I say needing - more items. When we finished an hour later, David had collected one pair of jeans, a few shirts, one sweater, and some extra boxers. And there I was with my leaning tower of pajamas, two pairs of sweats, three fleece vests, several sweaters, tons of t-shirts, underwear, socks, gym duds, yoga clothes, five pairs of shoes, a huge box of Q-tips, several books, and a stack of unread magazines from 2005. So much for minimalism.

Ten days later we returned to the Evil Empire of Storage on a quest to purge clothing. Every bit we chucked then meant less for the moving van later - sheer genius. On a beautiful Thursday afternoon we spent five hours indoors plowing through umpteen Hefty bags that housed enough clothing, shoes, and accessories to outfit a Vietnamese village.

At the end of the day we’d amassed three huge piles for Goodwill, two mammoth bags for consignment (which later would end up at Goodwill), and one giant sack of items deemed unfit for second-hand sale, but wearable nonetheless. We ditched the latter in a nearby downtown alley, hoping we could help out a few homeless folks in need. We arrived home elated and high-fiving our first victory, but we were a long way from minimalist nirvana.

And that was okay. If the Buddha spent a lifetime practicing non-attachment, I surely couldn’t expect to master it after two trips to my storage unit. After a mostly third-world journey like ours, had I not returned home questioning our consumerist society and my role in it, I would have missed a very valuable lesson along the way. That’s probably why last fall I enjoyed hanging out in our fifth furnished sublet apartment in almost three years, and didn’t lament the lack of a space to call home. Living with other people’s stuff for so long has taught me that I don’t miss much of my own.

We’re scaling back in other areas as well, but it’s not just due to a recession. Like many people now, we drive the car less. Cook at home. Forego theater movies for backgammon or cards. Read more library books. Watch less TV. Take fewer showers. Flush every third time if it’s yellow. And while others might have been forced to cut back out of necessity, we were fortunate to make a choice - based on what the world taught us all those months - long before being frugal became the new black.

Whereas in the past I would have struggled hard to avoid the consumption trap and the materialistic pull, and to ignore that nagging Western need to keep up with the Joneses, now it comes naturally. I shun buying, which is still a pretty un-American thing to do, bad economy or not. The $2 flip flops I purchased in June 2007 from a dusty roadside stall in Aswan, Egypt, still do the job. As do the existing clothes in my closet, many of which I’ve owned for over 10 years. Sure, I might look a bit un-hip in a trendy city like San Francisco wearing shirts from the ‘90s, but I don’t care. Soon enough that decade will come back into fashion.

In a complete parting with societal norms, David and I still don’t own cell phones, much to the dismay of our friends, not to mention Verizon. We’re reminded of it every day as texting becomes the national pastime. Perhaps most appalling for a writer, until only recently I typed on a wired 1999 Compaq desktop that gurgled and churned like an ailing digestive tract. Bottom line: If it ain’t broke, we don’t plan to fix it, replace it, or upgrade it.

Unaccustomed to the modern conveniences and abundance that our country provides, it was shocking and strange to return home to the States after a year-plus overseas, no matter how well we prepared ourselves. In America restaurant portions are huge, stores carry seemingly endless supplies of stuff, buses have leg room, showers have curtains, toilets have seats, and streets are paved, devoid of camels or cows.

But regardless of our awkward readjustment phase and the state of the economy these days, that elusive concept of “enough” is starting to sit peacefully with us now. Our scaled-down version of living, and the wanderlust we embraced, allowed us to experience a real freedom from materialism. And we have adventure travel to thank for it.

(Click here for Part 2 of this story.)

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