December 27, 1996

There are four days left of 1996. "It's been a long year." I usually hear those words accompanied by a sigh (a year best forgotten). But for us it has been a fantastic year. It's felt long because we have done so much, seen so much, experienced so much. I remember previous years that felt short, each day was like the last, merged into one continuous ritual. After our third week in Morocco, we were exhausted every night by six o'clock. We were certain that we had contracted a bug, until we realized that, according to the calendar, what felt like our third week was really only the end of our first. We'd experienced so many different things in such a short space of time, our week felt extended.

Now that we're home, the days fly. Though still not into our new apartment, we continually make trips there to move boxes from storage unit to attic and to check on the progress of the painters. We've also been furniture shopping. At the moment, it is hard to say whether the effort of pre-trip selling the old and post-trip buying new outweighs the cost of storage. New things are fun; still, it will be good to see some of our old 'friends', though I'm sure many-a box will be opened with the exclamation "Why did we keep this?"

After living on the road with so little, it's hard to justify all the 'things' we own. One evening in Turkey, Hana and Craig started talking about all the electric gadgets that American's own. "We're not like most people," John insisted. "We own only the necessities." Then we began listing the kitchen. Our voices trailed off to whispers after we'd listed only half of what we own: (waffle iron, toaster oven, tortilla press, electric frying pan, rice maker, food processor, bread machine, mixer, blender...) Were I prone to turning red, that would have been the ideal moment..

Maybe I won't use any of those things again. Give me a pot and a frying pan and I'm set for life. Okay, who am I kidding? I'll be pulling plugs in and out of those kitchen outlets faster than you can pop a kernel in that hot-air popper.

But until we start opening those boxes and rediscovering our electric past, we'll be living with the minimum, in the minimal mode. Until then there will be no worry about having left the iron on or whether the toaster oven lever will seize again and I'll have charcoal for breakfast. For a few more days I have only to concern myself with where we are going to shower next, to wash our laundry and to sleep for the night.