I’m not big on souvenirs. At least, not in the traditional sense. Rand and I are on the road a lot, and if I purchased every delightfully tasteless memento I encountered, we’d long ago have been buried under a pile of snowglobes, novelty beer bottle openers, and tiny resin sculptures of bears in swimming trunks. Which, for the record, doesn’t sound that bad. “Crushed by tchotchkes” is up there with “asphyxiation by cake” and “cuddled to death by kittens” on my list of preferred ways to die.
Don’t think that we’re models of self-restraint, because frankly, we have very little (lest you think I am lying, hear this: I just devoured a slice of coconut cake the size of my head and I wish I had more). Rand hates accumulating stuff, and my pragmatism outweighs any sentimentality I might otherwise have: “If I buy this, I will eventually have to dust it,” is how I usually talk myself out of purchases while on the road.