Where did all this stuff come from? It wasn't always this way.
When I as 21, I lived in a tent in the woods for 3 months with only a backpack's belongings.
Here, in the raw, windswept beauty of the Îles-de-la-Madeleine (even their name is beautiful). It had been a dream of mine to visit this archipelago of tiny islands in the Golf of St-Lawrence since I had discovered their existence about 3 years prior. I've always had a thing for maritime culture: the boats, the fishing villages, the ocean, the céilidh kitchen parties of Canada's East Coast provinces, the fiddle music and boisterous singing. The smell of salt water in the air, the feeling of sand between my toes, and the ethereal glow of moonlight on the water.
Even better, these islands belong to Quebec and are (save two tiny anglophone communities within the archipelago) about 96% French-speaking. I was hooked. During my year studying at Université Laval I made some friends from the islands who kindly and generously invited me into their circle of friends, helping me to find a job and figure out the logistics of a summer in their islands.
So I spent 3 months that summer living in a tiny North Face 2-person backpackers tent. It was perfect. A colleague at the vacation center where I worked helped me (that is, I mostly watched him) construct a raised bed of sand under my tent, and we strung a large tarp from the trees branches above, meaning that no rain ever touched it all summer long. I had chosen an isolated spot in the woods down a barely-there path, not near any of the other summer employees also living in tents, as I prized my sleep and privacy.
I slept breathing in the crisp salty-pine air. Upon hearing this, Europeans ask me about animals (they are convinced bears stalk every Canadian's daily life); there are none larger than a house cat on the islands, so that was not a worry to me. My biggest problem was finding my nearly invisible path to my tent in the dark when I would return from an evening out and had, yet again, forgotten my flashlight. Stumbling over underbrush with arms stretched straight out, the glow-in-the-dark zip pull on my tent faithfully guided me home.
I loved the freedom of waking up in the morning, maybe going for a dip in the ocean if I had time, pulling on some clothes (my belongings, which could fit into a large hiking backpack all laid out beside my sleeping bag in the "second person" sleeping spot in the tent), walking up to the campground showers to freshen up for the day. Eating in the restaurant at an employee discount and being immediately at work. It was a little-to-no-makeup/jewelry summer, a few outfits, a few books and my journal. I caught rides to the main island with friends or we hitchhiked. A friend's family let me stay with them when I needed to, I must have done all my laundry there. It was a simple life, and the lack of possessions to maintain and bills to pay was incredibly freeing (especially to a student-loan-debt plagued young graduate).
It was a summer of sun, sand, sea, and wind. When I returned to the City at the end of 3 and a half months, quickly, via a two-hour plane ride rather than the 24-hour drive by which I got to the islands, I was hit with culture shock. So many buildings. So many advertisements and billboards. So many things. To buy. To pay off. To house. To clean.
So much materialism.
Back then, I wished I could live in that simple, clutter-free island summer bubble forever.
Part one of a little series...
