Growing up, my family was never particularly sentimental about things. We didn’t collect fridge magnets or line shelves with porcelain figurines that existed solely to gather dust. No one I knew was the kind of person who came home from a holiday with a tea towel emblazoned with I ‘heart’ Barcelona. Those souvenir shops, packed wall-to-wall with miniature landmarks and novelty shot glasses, always felt like tourist traps designed to siphon off your last few euros before the flight home.
The only thing I ever really brought back from holidays was a sunburn, and occasionally one of those braided anklets that somehow felt deeply meaningful on day one and entirely embarrassing by week three.
That all changed once I started travelling without my family.
There’s something about travelling on your own terms, choosing where you go, where you eat, how long you stay, that feels both exhilarating and oddly exposing. You’re suddenly responsible for the memories you make, and, maybe more importantly, for how you remember them. Somewhere along the way, that autonomy made me care far more than I ever had about what I brought home with me.
At first, I wasn’t convinced this newfound interest in souvenirs was anything noble. It felt suspiciously like an attempt to justify spending money. See? I could tell myself. That weekend away was worth it. I got this mug. But over time, something else happened and a pattern emerged.
Across my last eight trips, ranging from seaside staycations to European city escapes, I’ve returned home with the same thing every single time: a deck of playing cards.
They started appearing almost by accident. A pack bought in an airport shop to pass the time during a delayed flight. A ceramic-style deck from a Dutch market that caught my eye mid-wander. A sleek metallic set from Switzerland that looked far too beautifully tacky to leave behind. A birdwatching-themed pack from Berwick-upon-Tweed even somehow made its way into my bag when it was the only option available.
At some point, I realised this wasn’t just coincidence. What I had dismissed as clutter had quietly turned into a habit.
I used to think souvenirs were things you bought and forgot. These weren’t that.
I used to think souvenirs were things you bought and forgot. These weren’t that.
Without really meaning to, my partner and I started reaching for the cards instinctively. Waiting for a table at dinner. Killing time in a hotel room. Winding down after a long day of walking until our feet hurt. Out came the deck. With friends or family, what began as a casual hangout often turned into an impromptu games night where we could showcase the new addition to our collection. The cards slipped seamlessly into both our travels and our everyday lives.
Now, whenever we go somewhere new, tracking down a deck has become part of the adventure. We keep an eye out in markets, museum shops, bookshops or any place where design and locality could collide. We’ve even talked about returning to places purely to find the right pack we missed the first time around, which feels like the most unserious but also deeply sincere travel motivation imaginable.
What I love most about this accidental collection is how personal it feels. These aren’t generic souvenirs bought out of obligation or panic at the departure gate. They’re tied to shared, quiet moments - the kind that don’t make it onto our Instagram stories. They’re beautiful, functional, and full of private meaning. Each deck carries a memory of a place explored, a train journey taken, a lazy afternoon spent playing cards on a balcony or café terrace.
I used to think souvenirs were just clutter. Now I understand they can be something much more.
In a time when so much of our lives exists digitally in photos we scroll past once and never look at again, memories getting buried under thousands of images, there’s something grounding about an object that earns its place in your life. Something you use. Something that travels with you and then comes home, again and again.
So no, I still don’t want a shot glass with a skyline printed on it, or a novelty magnet destined to fall off the fridge. But a deck of playing cards? One that holds a place, a moment, a version of myself I was while travelling?
That, I’ll treasure.