Nothing signifies a well-spent holiday more than a suitcase full of souvenirs. Whether they're bought in Cairo or on Cape Cod, in New Delhi or Donegal, nothing says "I've been away!" more loudly than those varied keepsakes - large and small, tacky or tasteful - that you simply must acquire to round off your annual getaway and which then proceed to take up space in a forgotten corner of your home.
How do I know this? Because I've been there and bought the T-shirt - as well as a good few other trinkets along the way. I've surrendered to those same impulses, only to wonder months (or even years) later what I ever saw in that diminutive statue of a gondolier I picked up in Venice back in 1982.
During a second Italian foray, a few years later, I found myself in Rome, on my way to visit my father's family in Sicily. As one does when in the Holy City, I wandered over to St Peter's Square, hoping to boost my spiritual stock, only to discover that the place was ringed with souvenir stands selling everything from papal dish towels to Vatican ashtrays. (Remember, this was in the hell-raising Eighties, when lighting up didn't get you put down.) On this particular occasion, though, I showed commendable restraint, restricting myself to a pen and notepad embossed with the beaming visage of a resplendent John Paul II.
Yes, I'm a sucker for souvenirs. After all, distinctive mementos such as Guinness key-chains and thatched-cottage fridge magnets never go out of style, not having been there in the first place.
My status as a shameless hoarder of unmarketable collectables was confirmed recently when I came across a cache of knick-knacks and keepsakes from my modest travels in decades past - the treasure in question was uncovered during a spell of merciless house de-cluttering.
The first item out of the box was a paper placemat from a Burger King in Madrid advertising the magnificent El Whopper. Apparently, I was so impressed by the linguistic versatility of the fast-food industry that I also took away a placemat from a McDonald's in Geneva. Mind you, I never realized how cutting-edge these collectables would become. Only a decade later Quentin Tarantino would feed John Travolta his classic Pulp Fiction lines which, coincidentally, reveal an intimate understanding of French fast-food menus.
Of course, I didn't just eat my way - rather poorly - across Europe in those days. There was also culture, if the various theatre programmes I accumulated are to be believed. According to the documentary evidence still on file in my wardrobe, I saw a group called Harvey and The Wallbangers perform a musical revue called Park The Tiger. This was in 1986, in the Belfast Opera House - I think. The programme is unclear about the venue, which isn't surprising given the volatile political climate in Northern Ireland at the time.
I also saw some Beckett and Behan in Dublin, as well as a performance of Glengarry Glen Ross in the Mermaid Theatre in London. To offset the intensity of David Mamet's play, I then took in some lighter fare entitled Lend Me A Tenor at the Globe. It might sound as though I'm flaunting my cultural credentials here, but back then that was the farthest thing from my mind. Going to see a play or hear some music largely about killing time before I set off for the next city on my whistle-stop European backpacking tour.
What else could explain the fact that in a cinema in Avignon,in southern France, I sat through a late showing of Les Aventeurs de L'Ark Perdue (Raiders of the Lost Ark) while waiting for a 2am train to Italy. Or that, in similar circumstances, I slipped into a cinema in Rome to see Rocky IV. (Given the lack of subtitles, the only line I was able to make out was "Bonna fortuna, Rocky".)
Without doubt, though, I picked up my two most meaningful keepsakes in a small town called Augusta on the east coast of Sicily. This is where my grandparents were born. From my father's Uncle Francesco I received a meticulous hand-drawn copy of our family tree (the Italian side, that is), which he entrusted to me with genuine care. And then, later in my visit, I found an oversize black-and-white postcard of the local church where my grandparents were married before they sailed for Boston. When I got home a couple of months later, I had the postcard mounted and framed, as a gift to my father.
As you can see, then, I'm the last person to utter an unkind word about souvenirs. Even the smallest can evoke cherished memories from travels past. But you do have to be selective. Even an inveterate keepsake collector like myself would draw the line at three-foot-high inflatable leprechaun I saw in a Dublin shop window the other day.