They might be tacky, but here's why souvenirs matter
There is coconut candy from the Mekong Delta in my kitchen drawer and a bottle of Kowloon Soy Co. Gold Label soy sauce in the cupboard. They're my travel souvenirs, tangible reminders of where I have been.
Every time I sneak another sweet, I'm swept back to the Hai Van coconut farm on the Mekong Delta and the family of sisters who wrapped them by hand, freshly made and still warm. And every time I reach for the soy sauce, I remember the little shop in Hong Kong where I talked to the fellow who had made it; one of the last remaining local producers on the island.
These things inform my eating and my cooking, and make me feel warm and fuzzy every time I open the cupboard or the drawer.
Souvenirs are funny things. An entire industry has been generated by our need to say 'I was there', and to prove it with something small, mass-produced and badly painted.
Yes, I bought the small Eiffel Tower replicas on my first trip to Paris, and still regret not buying the bedside lamp version that lights up and sparkles at the press of a button.
I bought a souvenir moose in Canada, but that didn't make it home because it was actually made of chocolate (as in chocolate moose). And no, I did not buy a kitchen apron in Florence emblazoned with the full-length naked image of the Statue of David, but only because they didn't have my size.
Souvenirs appeal to the obsessive collector that lurks within us all. Buy one snow dome of silver glitter raining down upon Moscow, and you will buy 300, one from each city you will ever visit. It's also very tempting to purchase something papal in Rome, or something royal in London, if only ironically (there's a big market in ironically-motivated souvenirs – I think they're on to us).
Some of the best souvenirs are bought by necessity, like the coasters I bought to protect my fancy hotel bedside tables from teacup rings.
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The Age
28-05-2025
- The Age
They might be tacky, but this is why I buy souvenirs
There is coconut candy from the Mekong Delta in my kitchen drawer and a bottle of Kowloon Soy Co. Gold Label soy sauce in the cupboard. They're my travel souvenirs, tangible reminders of where I have been. Every time I sneak another sweet, I'm swept back to the Hai Van coconut farm on the Mekong Delta and the family of sisters who wrapped them by hand, freshly made and still warm. And every time I reach for the soy sauce, I remember the little shop in Hong Kong where I talked to the fellow who had made it; one of the last remaining local producers on the island. These things inform my eating and my cooking, and make me feel warm and fuzzy every time I open the cupboard or the drawer. Souvenirs are funny things. An entire industry has been generated by our need to say 'I was there', and to prove it with something small, mass-produced and badly painted. Yes, I bought the small Eiffel Tower replicas on my first trip to Paris, and still regret not buying the bedside lamp version that lights up and sparkles at the press of a button. I bought a souvenir moose in Canada, but that didn't make it home because it was actually made of chocolate (as in chocolate moose). And no, I did not buy a kitchen apron in Florence emblazoned with the full-length naked image of the Statue of David, but only because they didn't have my size. Souvenirs appeal to the obsessive collector that lurks within us all. Buy one snow dome of silver glitter raining down upon Moscow, and you will buy 300, one from each city you will ever visit. It's also very tempting to purchase something papal in Rome, or something royal in London, if only ironically (there's a big market in ironically-motivated souvenirs – I think they're on to us). Some of the best souvenirs are bought by necessity, like the coasters I bought to protect my fancy hotel bedside tables from teacup rings.
Sydney Morning Herald
28-05-2025
- Sydney Morning Herald
They might be tacky, but this is why I buy souvenirs
There is coconut candy from the Mekong Delta in my kitchen drawer and a bottle of Kowloon Soy Co. Gold Label soy sauce in the cupboard. They're my travel souvenirs, tangible reminders of where I have been. Every time I sneak another sweet, I'm swept back to the Hai Van coconut farm on the Mekong Delta and the family of sisters who wrapped them by hand, freshly made and still warm. And every time I reach for the soy sauce, I remember the little shop in Hong Kong where I talked to the fellow who had made it; one of the last remaining local producers on the island. These things inform my eating and my cooking, and make me feel warm and fuzzy every time I open the cupboard or the drawer. Souvenirs are funny things. An entire industry has been generated by our need to say 'I was there', and to prove it with something small, mass-produced and badly painted. Yes, I bought the small Eiffel Tower replicas on my first trip to Paris, and still regret not buying the bedside lamp version that lights up and sparkles at the press of a button. I bought a souvenir moose in Canada, but that didn't make it home because it was actually made of chocolate (as in chocolate moose). And no, I did not buy a kitchen apron in Florence emblazoned with the full-length naked image of the Statue of David, but only because they didn't have my size. Souvenirs appeal to the obsessive collector that lurks within us all. Buy one snow dome of silver glitter raining down upon Moscow, and you will buy 300, one from each city you will ever visit. It's also very tempting to purchase something papal in Rome, or something royal in London, if only ironically (there's a big market in ironically-motivated souvenirs – I think they're on to us). Some of the best souvenirs are bought by necessity, like the coasters I bought to protect my fancy hotel bedside tables from teacup rings.
The Age
28-05-2025
- The Age
They might be tacky, but here's why souvenirs matter
There is coconut candy from the Mekong Delta in my kitchen drawer and a bottle of Kowloon Soy Co. Gold Label soy sauce in the cupboard. They're my travel souvenirs, tangible reminders of where I have been. Every time I sneak another sweet, I'm swept back to the Hai Van coconut farm on the Mekong Delta and the family of sisters who wrapped them by hand, freshly made and still warm. And every time I reach for the soy sauce, I remember the little shop in Hong Kong where I talked to the fellow who had made it; one of the last remaining local producers on the island. These things inform my eating and my cooking, and make me feel warm and fuzzy every time I open the cupboard or the drawer. Souvenirs are funny things. An entire industry has been generated by our need to say 'I was there', and to prove it with something small, mass-produced and badly painted. Yes, I bought the small Eiffel Tower replicas on my first trip to Paris, and still regret not buying the bedside lamp version that lights up and sparkles at the press of a button. I bought a souvenir moose in Canada, but that didn't make it home because it was actually made of chocolate (as in chocolate moose). And no, I did not buy a kitchen apron in Florence emblazoned with the full-length naked image of the Statue of David, but only because they didn't have my size. Souvenirs appeal to the obsessive collector that lurks within us all. Buy one snow dome of silver glitter raining down upon Moscow, and you will buy 300, one from each city you will ever visit. It's also very tempting to purchase something papal in Rome, or something royal in London, if only ironically (there's a big market in ironically-motivated souvenirs – I think they're on to us). Some of the best souvenirs are bought by necessity, like the coasters I bought to protect my fancy hotel bedside tables from teacup rings.
