The Travel Memory I Left Behind

I abandoned it on purpose. I wish I hadn’t.

Take only memories.

A calming travel mantra to live by. You can almost feel the zen oozing from the pores of those three words. It’s a tranquil ideology, perfect for an uncluttered living experience.

But I like stuff.

Little reminders of where I’ve been. Memories are great and all, but they shift and fade and disappear. There are places I’ve been, years and years ago, I struggle to retain. I might recall moments in time, snapshots of events and conversations, but I don’t have enough wall space in my mind to readily display those captured memories.

I’m not an avid shopper. I’m not someone who needs to stop in every boutique or discover the difference in Levi’s stores from one country to the next. I’m much more selective. I want something that represents my time in the given place and can only be found in that given place.

I gravitate to art. I mean, I received my bachelor’s degree from an art and design university, so the creative side of things has always pulled me in one direction. So I have paintings and sculptures from various countries. Far too many localized takes on Star Wars creatures (one of my favorites is a small Yoda sculpture outfitted in traditional Peruvian garb), and other little things I could easily cram into suitcases without fear of smashing or shredding.

And yet, almost all of my travel regrets linger on what I did not purchase. The memories I left behind and that I will likely never reclaim. Memories of memories.

Visiting Easter Island, all I wanted was a sculpture of the moai statues. I purchased a wood carving the very first day I arrived as if I’d forget to buy one before leaving. Every artisan on the island sold some variation of the sculpture. Some stone, some wood, others plaster, a few painted (as not everyone knows the back of the states feature carved tattoos that, at one point in time, were painted with vibrant colors)

I toured the speck of land, wandering through the national park and taking in the heads as the island did its best to swallow the carved stone.

Around the island are wild horses, paying no mind to tourists as they shaded themselves in the shadows of carved gods. Everyone took photos, capturing memories to take home with them. I took one as well.

I left with mostly mental visuals of the moai and the horses. And of course my little wood statue. But it’s what I left behind that remains with me the most.

A shaved piece of wood, sliced thin enough to almost be considered paper, with an ink drawing of the island’s original settlers, accented with traces of watercolor. The wood “paper” imperfect, with the splinters and grains showing against the ink, offering a beautiful texture and a both light brown and translucent backdrop. The edges of the wood were rough, showing trace edges of bark.

I saw the drawing on my final day on the island, for sale by an aged man in his little shop, bent over a makeshift workbench, as he shaved down another canvas. The shop had no natural lights, but the open roof exposed the man’s workspace to the sky. I asked the man how much he wanted for the finished piece, hanging in a simple wood frame, sunlight cutting through the thin wood, the subtle watercolor popping like stained glass. He quoted a price. I did not have enough cash in my wallet. I would need to visit an ATM.

ATMs on the island weren’t exactly cheap to use. But stuck in the middle of the Pacific, there were no other options. In a world where a burger, fries, and Coke cost $40 (and back in 2010), withdrawing money came with its own financial hiccups.

I thought about the shaved painting as I spent my final hours roaming the quiet streets. While I packed my luggage. While I boarded the plane and took off, looking down on the island and the memory I opted not to pursue.

I still think of it, wishing I had accepted the steep ATM fees and made the purchase. Few are lucky enough to visit the remote island and take in the carved statues, some still in the stone nursery, awaiting a final birth and deliverance to another point on the island.

And yet, beyond the time spent on the island and all the wonders I saw, my thoughts linger on that wood-carved paper and the inked watercolor drawing.

It’s strange, really. I no longer can see the image, or what it actually looks like. I have blurred, faded memories of the old man. The studio with no lights, opened to the sky. I can’t remember its size or the colors used. Maybe the thing was ugly, and it had no place hanging on my walls. I can’t remember.

If I had bought it, memory wouldn’t be a problem.

I don’t know why it impacted me in such a way. Why it carved into me, nestling into my brain, unwilling to be forgotten. While I barely remember it, I fully remember the idea of it. And there are days I contemplate putting together a trip, back to Easter Island, not for the statues or the $40 burgers, but to try and track the old man and his drawings down.

In so many of my travels, there are little things I leave behind. Little pebbles of memories. They didn’t impact my stay or my experience, but for one reason or another, I left them behind. A deck of hand-drawn playing cards in Bali. A coffee mug with the black and white mosaic walkway of Rio. A painting from central Australia made by a local aboriginal artist, an image I couldn’t make sense of then, and a memory I still can’t make sense of now.

Little shopping is done on my part when I travel. Beyond a local cookbook from every destination, I buy little else. I have little use for the mass-produced souvenirs or gift shop knick-knacks, but for some reason, there’s always that little piece I regret leaving behind.

I try to follow the mantra of taking only memories, but those memories would sure be aided if I didn’t leave those random items behind.