I have a confession to make.  I’m a travel-souvenir addict.  My addiction started a long time ago, on my family’s travels all over Australia, and has only increased in intensity over time.  I once collected post-cards of the places I had been, and sometimes key-rings.  That became too easy, so now I collect larger objects: things that remind me of the essence of the place I’ve visited (like my Henry VIII bear from the Tower of London, pictured above).  My addiction has morphed into a personal challenge to find the funniest, tackiest or coolest souvenir I can.

I can trace my problem back to my family.  My mum’s mother travelled to the UK, Greece, Turkey, Papua New Guinea and New Zealand; whilst my dad’s parents went just about everywhere (they were set to embark on a long trip to China when my grandpa died unexpectedly - I hope I’m still planning trips when I’m in my seventies).  My dad has been to Africa, and both my parents have been to Greece, Turkey, Singapore, Malaysia, Vanuatu and Norfolk Island.  My sister has been on exchange to Germany.  Whenever any member of my family comes back from their holiday it is a given that they will bring back armfuls of great souvenirs.  I treasure my Namibian hand-made doll, my baby-carrying woven bag from Papua New Guinea, my turquoise ring and evil-eye necklace from Turkey, my Grecian lady, my silk scarf from Oxford, my Scotch thistle necklace from Edinburgh, and my arm band from Malaysia.  I’m sure my family in turn treasure the presents I’ve brought back for them over my years of travelling.

The problem is that my addiction has become so bad that I plan my holiday around what I’m going to buy for everyone, and it’s at the front of my mind the whole time.  That isn’t to say I don’t enjoy shopping in different countries, it’s just I feel I should be more focused on the culture, the sights, or the history.  When Rob and I went to Norway, I obsessed over the traditional Scandinavian jumpers.  When we went to Vatican City, I pawed over the rosary beads.  In Venice I pulled Rob into virtually hundreds of mask shops, and in Prague he was submitted to the slow torture of wandering into countless Bohemian crystal shops.  Even the UK, my second home, holds hidden traps - the Tower of London has one of the best souvenir shops in the world, whilst the National Gallery is filled to the brim with fantastic prints and art books.  This is where I found a huge print of Paul Delaroche’s ‘The Execution of Lady Jane Grey,’ a painting I analyzed in my honours thesis.

Perhaps the silliest ailment my addiction causes me is my need to find strange confectionery in each country I visit to take home for my sister, just as she did for me when she was in Germany.  I don’t know why we do it, but we seem compelled to bring back a selection of the sweets and lollies from each region for each other to try.  Try explaining a kilogram or two of Norwegian sweets to customs and you’ll understand my predicament.

Is there a cure for my problem (aside from leaving my purse at home)?  Should I undergo hypnosis, wear a souvenir-patch, or go into therapy?  Or am I damned for all eternity to be continually on the look out for the next best souvenir?