"Tracy Travels Everywhere: My Journey through the World and Back to Myself" - Coming soon!

"Tracy Travels Everywhere: My Journey through the World and Back to Myself" - Coming soon!

The Souvenir Shelf

Stories of belonging, travel, and finding myself

Every shelf tells a story. Mine is lined with souvenirs I’ve carried home from years of travel — little things that might look ordinary at first glance. But for me, each one marks a turning point: leaving Buffalo for San Francisco, climbing mountains in Peru, celebrating a milestone birthday in Costa Rica.

These objects have followed me across the country — from California to Colorado, to Connecticut, and back again — always finding their place on a new shelf. They remind me that belonging isn’t only found in faraway places — it comes home with us, tucked into the stories we tell and the things we keep.

This series is my way of pulling a few souvenirs off the shelf and sharing the stories behind them, one object at a time.

San Francisco, mid-90’s

When I traded the East Coast for the West Coast

This piece has followed me for decades. I bought it in San Francisco in the mid-90s, when I was 22 and had just left Buffalo behind for California. I’d left in the midst of a storm brewing, also known as my older brother Jim. The fight with him was so memorable that I can still see the shadows on the wall, cast from the single bulb hanging above the landing at the top of the staircase. My brother was at the foot of the stairs; I was standing near the halfway point.

My oversized, plush loveseat that I was leaving behind took up too much space in my sister’s living room. But it was beautiful furniture, and I couldn’t bear to sell it, not yet. I didn’t know how long I’d be gone. I just knew I was going. A few days later, I got on a plane with barely a word to my family or friends.

I landed in San Francisco with no plan beyond staying at my ex-boyfriend’s uncle’s house, the same ex-boyfriend who had cheated on me with my best friend. The same ex I cried over years later when he died, and I was married with my third child on the way.

It’s funny how a souvenir can evoke memories that have little to do with the souvenir itself. That fight with my brother has haunted me for years, because it told me that I wasn’t allowed to choose what made me happy. I often think back to what my life would have been like if I had stayed. Would I have extended the generational poverty of our family, or would I have broken its grip on us?

I think I was searching for belonging even then. Leaving was the only way I knew how to find it. I only stayed in California a few months—long enough to get my appendix out, date a cute sailor, and buy this souvenir. Now, when I look at it, I don’t see something I picked up in Chinatown. I see freedom.

  • I wandered the aisles of the souk, getting lost among the yellow and blue birds in their cages and the rows of cheap suitcases stacked high for tourists who’d overspent. Everywhere I turned, there was something—jewelry, trinkets, scarves, and blankets. The kind of things tourists buy to prove they've been somewhere different. That’s where I spotted it: a small jewelry tray. Nothing fancy, but its colors caught my eye. I tried to bargain, but I'm sure I overpaid for my slice of uniqueness.

    By the time I stepped out from the aisles, the courtyard was buzzing. Argentina had just made the finals of the World Cup. At first, I saw just a handful of fans, wearing their blue-and-white Messi jerseys. Then more showed up, carrying flags, one guy had a radio on his shoulder, music blaring over the shouting. Kids lined the sidewalks, and then the trickle was a mass, the whole place exploding into celebration. From bags to flags, just like that. I didn’t know the chants, and I didn’t have a flag, but I still cheered, standing shoulder to shoulder with strangers, and I felt like I belonged.

    That night, I carried home two souvenirs: the jewelry tray in my bag and the memory of what I experienced in the courtyard. One small and personal, the other loud and collective. Both reminders, that belonging sometimes shows up in what you carry home, or sometimes in the middle of strangers.

  • When I began traveling, I made a promise to myself. Eat new things, even the ones that scared me. Sushi was first on my list. At home, the idea of eating raw fish had never appealed to me. It was too squishy in the mouth. But here I was, sitting at a table in Japan, repeating over and over, You have to do this. You promised you would.

    Our server came to fill our sake, sliding each cup to the top, where it spilled over a red-and-black lacquered box that caught the overflow. I took a sip. And another. And suddenly the voice in my head that said no to new things fell silent. With each sip, it became easier to taste the next bite, and the next. At the end of the meal, I was eating sushi, the real stuff, not the supermarket California rolls I’d always shied away from.

    Before I left Japan, I bought a sake set in the same deep red of that lacquered box. It was a reminder to say yes: to food, to strangers, to a culture that was not mine but embraced me when I opened myself to it. The set came back with me, but the souvenir I valued most was the bravery I took with me from that table. Evidence that new doesn’t always mean mountains to climb or oceans to swim. Sometimes it’s the first bite.

  • Barcelona was the third of ten stops on my 50th birthday trip. I’d only been gone for a week, but I was already tired. The forecast called for days in the 90s, and heat had never been my friend. I wanted to make the most of my time there, but I wasn’t sure I had the stamina for it.

    On my first day there, I came up with a plan: go out early, beat the heat, and see La Sagrada Familia. Everyone said it was spectacular, the one place not to miss. But somehow, I couldn’t find it. I walked in circles, passing other churches and the same avenues again and again, frustration settling in with every turn.

    Eventually, I gave up. I found a café in the middle of a plaza, ordered tapas, and let the cold beer cool my throat while I watched people pass by me, moving slowly, as if they had nowhere urgent to be. Tourists, locals, and artists filled the alleyways, and I thought maybe this was all I was meant to find that day.

    And then out of nowhere, I stumbled upon the church in this photo—the Cathedral of Barcelona. It wasn’t on my mind or my packed itinerary, overshadowed by Gaudi’s famous masterpiece. Yet here it was: its Gothic spires sharp and breathtaking, pulling my eyes toward the sky. I stood in the plaza, stunned, reminded that some of the best things appear when I stop chasing what I think I should find and simply see what is in front of me.

    These pictures are the souvenirs I picked up that day while wandering the alleyways. They are a reminder not just of the cathedral itself, but of the lesson I carry from it: belonging isn’t always about arriving where you planned. Sometimes it’s about pausing long enough to notice where you’ve already landed—and finding beauty right there.