Go to any museum or iconic tourist site, and you’ll inevitably find the only way out is through a gift shop. Recently I was at Versailles, where I could have brought home a salad tong topped with Marie Antoinette’s head. Or a tea set, a charcuterie board, t-shirts and aprons in every color, magnets, a vast array of books on French history, mirrors, wigs—and of course, Christmas ornaments.

As a traveler who doesn’t check a bag, I’m generally reluctant to shop. I do carry a small emergency tote that I can fill with tortillas when I’m in Texas—one of my few legitimate reasons to check luggage. That same bag has been known to reappear when I can’t resist rose soap or paprika from some remote corner of Bulgaria.

Most travelers I know love the chase of a good souvenir. Through their Amex cards, I vicariously enjoy the collective thrill of the hunt—the euphoria of finding that perfect thing, like a red leather purse or a clever ornament of a famous landmark. I still smile at the memory of a St. Stephen’s statue in Budapest that glows in the dark when placed on the Christmas tree. My own “ornaments,” however, tend to be simpler: a museum ticket stub, a rock from a hike, or something small enough to slip into my coat pocket.

Plato wrote that “necessity is the mother of invention,” and though he probably didn’t mean it in the context of souvenirs, it applies. My creativity kicks in when it comes to memory-keeping. Once, I tucked two dried cantaloupe seeds from a breakfast in Arles, France, into my bag and grew them in my garden the next summer. Sure, buying an ornament would’ve been easier—but much less satisfying.

After clearing out my mother’s home and my husband’s parents’ house, I’ve lost the urge to accumulate physical memories. I can already picture my children rolling their eyes at the mountain of trinkets they’d have to sort or toss someday. So I travel for the experience itself—to wander, taste, listen, and absorb. I merge our hobbies into each trip: biking, hiking, cooking classes, theater, museums, and food tours.

Often, I return home with a recipe scribbled on a wrinkled napkin or a few notes from a chef explaining his vinaigrette. Rarely can anything be bottled, but I wish it could. I try, at least, to bring back attitudes and inspirations: the resilience of New Zealanders who treat every steep climb as an invitation, or the fearless creativity of Bucharest women coloring their hair in bright defiance against crumbling façades and red tape.

Still, let’s be honest—I do love a good souvenir. I just curate carefully. My criteria: it must be of decent quality, preferably made locally with regional materials or ingredients. In a small village in Mallorca, I once bought a hand-woven wrap in shades of blue that matched the sea surrounding the island. I wore it home on the plane, and now it drapes over my favorite reading chair. Someday, I hope my daughters argue over it—not toss it aside like another mass-produced Christmas ornament stamped “Mallorca 2025.”

Travel takes us from the expected to the unexpected, and I like my souvenirs to reflect that. It’s not easy, but if I do it right, perhaps my stories—and not my stuff—will fill the suitcase and, someday, lighten the dumpster load.