"The Purpose of Getting Lost: A Story of Finding Myself" - Coming soon!
"The Purpose of Getting Lost: A Story of Finding 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.
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I roamed the aisles of the souk. Got lost between yellow and blue birds in cages and tall piles of cheap suitcases for tourists who’d overpaid. There was always something around the corner. Jewelry, trinkets, scarves, blankets. The kinds of things tourists buy to show that they were somewhere else, different. That’s when I saw it. A small jewelry tray. Nothing special, but the colors caught my eye. I haggled, but I know I paid more than I should have for my slice of one-of-a-kind.
By the time I stepped from the aisles, the courtyard was erupting. Argentina had just made the finals of the World Cup. At first, I only noticed a few fans, in their blue-and-white Messi jerseys. But more people poured in. Flags appeared, one guy with a radio strapped to his shoulder, music drowning out the shouts. Children lined the sidewalks, and then the trickle was a flood, the entire space detonating in celebration. Bags to flags in an instant. I didn’t know the chants, and I didn’t have a flag, but I still screamed. Shoulder to shoulder with strangers, and I felt like I fit in.
I carried two souvenirs home that night. The jewelry tray in my bag, and the memory of what I felt in the courtyard. One small and personal. The other loud and communal. Both reminders that belonging can sometimes show up in what you bring home. Or sometimes in the middle of strangers.
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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.
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Barcelona was the third of ten cities on my 50th birthday trip. I had only been away for a week, but I was already exhausted. Forecasters were already predicting days in the 90s, and heat had never been my ally. I wanted to see and do so much, but wasn’t sure I had the energy for it.
On my first day in the city, I devised a plan: get out early, beat the heat, see La Sagrada Familia. Everybody said it was spectacular, a must see. But somehow, I just couldn’t find it. I walked in circles, past other churches and same avenues over and over, frustration growing with every wrong turn.
Eventually, I gave up. Found a café in the middle of a plaza, ordered tapas, and nursed a cold beer, watching people pass by, slow, like they had nowhere urgent to be. Tourists, locals, artists all crowded the alleyways and I thought, maybe this is all I was meant to find today. And then, out of nowhere, there it was, this church in the photo—the Cathedral of Barcelona. I had not been thinking of it, it was not on my list, it had been eclipsed on my itinerary by Gaudi’s famous masterpiece. And yet here it was: its Gothic spires sharp and breathtaking, pulling my eyes up, up to the heavens. I was stunned; I stopped in the plaza and was reminded that the best things can appear only when I stop seeking what I think I should find and just see what’s in front of me.
These photos are the souvenirs I collected as I wandered that city’s 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. Sometimes, it’s about stopping long enough to notice where you’ve already landed – and seeing beauty there.
