Hello and welcome to the 52nd issue of Place! In our experience, souvenirs are something that most people have opinions about. Some of us have an item in mind to pick up before we even set foot in a place, while others let the objects they bring back home to remember somewhere with come to them. This week our editors are giving you their takes on souvenirs – we hope it gives you some food for thought the next time you embark somewhere new. Have an interesting souvenir story, or a particular thing you like to collect? Be sure to leave a comment on our post below!
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At Place, we believe that the experiences, sensations and conversations we have as we move about the world stay with us, stacking up as the years go by, forming who we are and the way we view the world. Do you have a letter to share? Send it to us at placeletter@protonmail.com. If you are interested in writing for Place you can find our pitch guide here. If you’re the social type, follow us on Twitter (@place_letter) where you can share your favourite pieces and Instagram (@placenewsletter) for a visual feast. Yours, The Place editorial team.
The last time I sought out a souvenir was at a leather tannery in the heart of Fez. A half hour of turns twisting through the labyrinthine medina, down a small terracotta alleyway, up a narrow set of stairs, we gazed out an open air window at the daily workings of the Chouara Tannery. Still operating under its centuries old manual methods, barefoot workers adeptly navigated the edges of round stone vessels filled with indigo and henna dye – like giant earth toned watercolor palettes – dipping bone white cow and sheep hides to soak in vats of cow urine and pigeon feces to soften the leather.
It was one of the sites I had dreamed of seeing while studying in Morocco, and even as I held the mint leaves our guide supplied close to my nostrils to ward off the acrid smell, I knew I wanted to take something with me from the tannery to remind me of a place that felt so fascinatingly far from where I had been before. Under the watchful eye of our program director Badrdine, who had been coaching us on bargaining on the bus ride across the Atlas Mountains, I purchased a pair of burgundy wrap up sandals that tied up at the ankle. I thought I’d have them forever, perhaps even pass them down to my own daughter when she headed out on her own world travels one day.
A week later I completely destroyed them while dancing at a raucous Halloween party at a nightclub in Rabat’s trendy Agdal neighborhood. Sweat, beer and the thrills of a live band immediately wore the outer to shreds and slightly broke my heart.
And so it has gone with nearly any souvenir I have sought out, from raffia bags to shot glasses to pooka shell jewelry that seems so enticing when seen under the technicolor vacation glow. I understand the temptation -- we feel our best while on holiday, perfectly priming us to justify an unusual spend to hold onto that feeling for just a little longer, hoping that the tea towel or magnet will be the physical conduit to that feeling when it is sitting in our decidedly less glamorous homes. I truly wish it were that simple. Instead, those bits and bobs that I picked up from early travels were either lost along the journey or forgotten in dust when I returned home – particularly those I purchased that were not attached to an experience but were simply a general memento of place. The moments that I take away from trips usually can’t be encompassed or even connected to anything physical. It is the new people, the different smells, the particular light, the density of the air, that I wish I could hold closer forever.
With that in mind, I have turned souveniring into more of an art than a science: I let the souvenirs come to me. These could be objects that served a purpose – the orange patterned sarong I picked up in Bali for visiting temples that is now draped over my dresser – or gifts from those I met along the way – such as the white disco-sparkly bangle that a student of mine slipped over my wrist one morning before class in Hyderabad that I now pair with my favorite party dresses. When I twist the silver ring on my middle finger, I think of the man in Delhi who guided me through two metro changes to ensure that I would be able to meet my friends, leaving me with a simple response to my gratitude: “I know if I came to America, you would do the same for me.”
It means I come home with less, but that with which I returned feels like it was destined to stay with me forever.
- Karis Hustad is a co-editor of Place and a journalist, usually covering debt, based in London.
The incentive of packing lightly is not simply to glide in under the kilo limit for a bag at the airport, but to be able to bring things back from wherever you are headed. The weight thing is often a problem for me, not just because I thirst for flea markets, but because my souvenir of choice is, unfortunately, a heavy one.
I have, for as long as I can remember, been someone who enjoys collecting. I keep multitudes of seemingly useless things – receipts, tickets, restaurant menus. Somewhere along the way, my tastes for collection centered on something seemingly less flimsy than random scraps of paper. I began to obsessively collect rocks.
Like so many behaviours that are difficult to explain, I am quite certain this aptitude of mine was honed in my childhood. My parents are both geologists, and we spent a lot of time pulled over on the side of the highway looking at rock formations peeking out of hillsides in the countryside. We also lived on a farm, and I spent a remarkable amount of time close to the ground, with my eyes peeled for worms, clovers, old animal bones – anything that could get me through a solitary summer day in a place where I had no neighborhood kids to play with.
We spent a period of our summer as a family on the Queen Charlotte Islands, where we would beachcomb for hours and hours. We were constantly picking up rocks, hoping we would find agates – pearly rocks that, if big enough, form sparkling crystal formations.
Collecting rocks as travel souvenirs didn’t happen right away – or at least I wasn’t consciously aware that I was doing it. When I was in India, on my first long trip away from home, I sent home three packages over a half year period, filled to the brim with textiles, ceramics, you name it. On my way home, I remember feeling anticipation at the thought of opening those boxes, and remembering exactly what it was that I had stowed away in there. When I finally did, I remember unpacking not only some long bolts of multicolored fabric, but also, some rocks.
Eventually, I began to realise what I was doing. I would, even when I had only been somewhere for a weekend, pick up pebbles, shells or stones from the ground that I thought were interesting, and line them up on the bedside table in my hotel room. For a time I questioned it, and once or twice, I left the rocks I had collected behind, telling myself there was no point in lugging these heavy scavenges back in an already cramped carry on.
But then, what is the difference between a rock and fridge magnet? Why is this thing that I didn’t buy in a shop but found on the ground any less valuable? If the point of souvenirs are to remember a place, to somehow capture a piece of our time there and to remind ourselves of those joyful memories each time we see it, what better than a piece of that very earth itself?
A couple of years ago, I started to line up my rocks on the windowsills of my bedroom, on my dresser, anywhere that there was a space. I’ve accepted that their presence is here to stay, and that I will inevitably continue to pick them up wherever I go. Each time I return from somewhere, I now add the new rocks to the collection, placing them just so between their comrades, all the while comparing their colours and their shapes, the porousness of their surfaces. A little kaleidoscope, brought together by the tight grip of a wandering hand.
- Kylee Pedersen is a co-editor of Place and a writer based in London, UK. She writes about travel, food, and the natural world, among other things.
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Join us next week for another journey.