When my home burned down in the Los Angeles wildfires last January, I felt bereft of not just my belongings and my way of life, but of my identity. We had left the house the morning of the fire to go to school and work. Only my partner managed to return home once we’d heard the news. As the fire was consuming the hill behind our house, he grabbed a few important items like passports, some jewelry, and a change of clothes. The next day our house—and the entire town of the Pacific Palisades—was gone. All we had to our name was what we were wearing and whatever was in our cars. No longer having the items of daily life, like my own clothes, eyeglasses, and shoes, made me feel like a stranger in my own body.
There are so many things my family and our neighbors (and those in Malibu and Altadena) lost. Our family heirlooms, artwork, and photos that burned had documented lives lived. Among the items I mourned, personally, were my children’s baby blankets and my engagement ring—but also, my travel souvenirs. There is something about holding an item in your hands and having the memories of a far-flung place, and the moment you bought it, come rushing back. Looking at a photo on a screen doesn’t transport me; the weight of something I found and chose to carry home always has.
Frequent travelers all have their thing when it comes to mementos. Mine has mainly been Christmas ornaments, typically handmade. My favorites were glass-blown candy canes that I bought near the Great Wall of China during my first trip to the country in 2011. It was the furthest I’d ever traveled from home, and the sight of a candy cane cured my homesickness. I also loved the twisted streamers I bought from a street market on my second trip to Mexico City is 2022; the ceramic Danish shoes purchased during a visit to the quirky town of Solvang, California, with my toddlers in 2014; a hand-carved wood trinket from the Maldives given to me by a resort on a trip there in 2016; a cute dumpling from Hong Kong that reminded me of my kids’ love; and several ornaments gathered from all my visits to the Hawaiian islands over 15 years.
But I never confined myself just to ornaments. I had knick knacks all around the house, like Chichi dolls, purposely oversized clay figures from Curaçao, made by women and painted in wild patterns and colors. In a hand-carved cigar box from Casco Viejo in Panama City, I kept a snail shell from the Okavango Delta in Botswana, beaded hoop earrings from Ubud, and metal bangles purchased outside Victoria Falls in Zimbabwe.
My three children were the recipients of most of my purchases: Frida Kahlo dolls, again, from Mexico City, handmade onesies from Beijing, brightly-colored dresses from Positano, a leather soccer ball from Rome, and, my favorite, a locket necklace carved out of tree bark, found at a Christmas market in Prague.
As a longtime hotel reporter, I also had a trove of hotel keys. Some were pieces of plastic art with fanciful illustrations on them, and some were actual keys, like the one from The Beverly Hills Hotel. A lot of them were keycards from Las Vegas casinos, featuring ads for now long-gone shows and performers. My most treasured item from those days was hotelier Ian Schrager’s massive Works book, signed by him with a personal note to me.
Another painful loss was the collection of postcards my friend Cynthia Drescher had sent me. Cynthia travels constantly and her love language is postcards. I had ones from around the world, foreign stamps and all, hanging near my desk just off the kitchen. When there got to be too many, I hung them in the kids’ playroom, hoping that my children would be inspired by wanderlust too.
