A Curated Curio Tray of Global Treasures and Family Heirlooms
Let’s take a tour around this small curio tray I made (the stain color is a regret, but let’s not focus on that). The first collection of items was considered “too creepy” for a kitchen. Apparently, naked cupie dolls and beady-eyed troll figurines are not what most people want to contemplate while buttering toast. So, this morning I shopped my travel collections to change it up.
Today’s version is a trip around the world.
Let me tell you a little about myself. When I travel, I like to pick up little statuary, weird trinkets, street artist works, and earrings (I have never met a museum gift shop I didn’t like). The things I buy are small, easy to pack, and, when I dust them later, I get a passport stamp in my memory.
Shall we start at the bottom, right?
We shall.
Bottom Row: Greece, Norway, Thailand
On the bottom right is a small statuette I picked up at an out-of-the-way historical site in Greece (and let’s be honest, there are a million out-of-the-way historical sites in Greece. Not all have gift shops). I don’t even remember which ruin it accompanied, but I remember the white glare of the sun, the dust, and the smell of thyme, sage, and salt in the air.
In the middle is a troll my husband brought home after he traveled to Norway in the 1970s. I’m sure it has some folkloric meaning, guarding bridges? forests? Children who don’t finish their vegetables? Most would consider this the “creepy” factor. I sort of like it for that reason. Every proper journey needs a slightly unsettling companion.
On the left sits a Buddha image I found in Thailand, as one does. Serene, grounded, unbothered by the troll. It balances the row nicely, marble gravitas, Nordic mischief, Southeast Asian calm.
Second Row: Inheritance, Ireland, Montserrat, and Memory
The next row up is a mixed bag of stuff, part heritage, part pilgrimage, part mystery.
From the right: silver and cobalt salt-and-pepper shakers. They are either Victorian or Edwardian. I inherited them from my mother-in-law, who believed they belonged to her mother (b.1892) or grandmother (b 1865). They feel dignified and slightly dramatic, as though they disapprove of modern table manners.
Right next to them is a small statue of the Black Madonna from the Benedictine Abbey of Santa Maria de Montserrat. Perched high in the hills, if you’ve never been there, it is breathtaking mountainous spires rising like fingers into the Catalonian sky. The Madonna is cloaked in gold; she is dark, luminous, and powerful.
Next is a tiny origami bird mobile purchased at a museum in Dublin. It’s delicate and hopeful, the sort of thing that makes you slow down and look twice. As we were strolling through the gift shop, my husband said, “You must buy this. It looks like you.”
Beside that sits a small wooden entwined couple. I have no clue where I got it. But it called to me then, and it still does. Some souvenirs arrive with provenance; others arrive with instinct.
Tucked among my mother-in-law’s things was this little bell. It has a quiet, old sound to it. I like to pick it up to give it a jingle. And the rock? That was given to me by a dear friend when my precious puppy Violet died. It is smooth and simple and heavier than it looks, like grief, but also like love.
Third Row: Barcelona, London, Philadelphia, Alaska
Moving up again, from right to left:
A single Gaudí-inspired cordial glass. I bought a pair in Barcelona, but I recently broke one, of course. I love the color, the organic shapes, and the unapologetic exuberance. Even alone, it stands proud.
Next to it is a small statue of a Degas dancer. I believe I purchased her in London, either at the Victoria and Albert Museum or the British Museum. She has that poised, backstage elegance. Always about to move.
Then there is a miniature The Kiss by Auguste Rodin. Rodin is my all-time favorite sculptor. I bought this at the Rodin Museum in Philadelphia. The first time I became aware of Rodin’s work was in the Los Angeles Art Museum garden. That garden got me through the stress and busyness of a city I’d never lived in before; it calmed and overwhelmed me in the best possible way. I couldn’t pass up the chance to buy this when I had the opportunity.
On the far left is a lovely Inuit soapstone piece that my mom picked up in Alaska. The carving is smooth, tactile, and elemental. It feels like wind and snow and quiet.
Fourth Row: Origins and Oddities
The next row is more intimate.
A pair of my baby shoes, slightly scuffed and impossibly small. A reminder that we all begin as travelers without maps.
A little keychain of the main character from Edvard Munch’s The Scream. A museum gift shop purchase, naturally. Dramatic? Yes. Relatable? Also, yes. Some days, I need to be reminded that it is okay to scream.
And three tiny glass bottles I found buried in a box of my great aunt’s things. I don’t know what they held. Travel-size Mercurochrome? Poison? Perfume? Root beer keg? A secret? I like that I’ll never know.
The Top: Murano, Marbles, and Shakespeare
And finally, the top.
A jar layered with marbles from when my husband and his brothers were children in the 1940s and ’50s. They bring brightly colored glass time capsules to the soil and the ivy plant, because every good display needs something alive and sparkly.
The Shakespeare duck my son gave me, which is scholarly and slightly ridiculous. Much like I am.
And a vase I bought while travelling in Italy. Swirled glass, luminous, unmistakably Venetian.
That rounds out our Travel tour for today.
From Greece to Norway, Thailand to Spain, Ireland to Alaska, with stops in London, Philadelphia, Murano, and the attic of family history. This little kitchen shelf holds more miles than it looks like it should.
Please stay in your seats until the carriage comes to a complete stop. Then you may disembark… preferably through the gift shop.
One response to “Welcome Aboard! Travelling Around The World (Without Leaving My Kitchen)”
Nicely quirky.