Start a Collection
by Frederick Egan Castleberry
I’m 38 years old and an untold number of vintage European hotel ashtrays litter my New York apartment. A colorful hand-painted dish from the Hotel Astor in Paris, a Richard Ginori[1] porcelain tray from the Italian Ciga Hotel, and an emerald green crest-shaped beauty from the Portuguese Hotel Condestavel[2] are a few of my favorites. The best souvenirs are not bought. They’re not sold. They’re lifted. Some I’ve nicked myself while others I’ve sniped on eBay. All together they make up a proper half-baked collection.
People will always want to collect physical objects, as a way of showing who they are. The impulse is universal. The idea of amassing items just for the enjoyment of it started as far back as 4,000 B.C., when primitive men created collections of non-functional stone tools.
Understanding the nature of collecting tells us something about ourselves as well as about the nature of things. We collect to measure out the passing of our days, to demonstrate our taste, to inject a sense of order, discipline, and control into our lives. Notable collections as a kid included Mark McGwire[3] rookie baseball cards, G.I. Joe action figures, and rocks and gems from the various states we’d vacationed to.
“Collectors are happy people.”
I lack the discipline of a collector’s collector. I have no desire to assemble a comprehensive exhibit of every beautifully designed European hotel ashtray ever made in the 20th century, just the ones that speak to me. Admittedly, I don’t smoke (often…and certainly not inside), but these honestly stolen ash trays serve as more than just souvenirs of one’s (or someone else’s!) travels—fortuitously commemorating Lisbon nights ending with a sunrise, the foot chase of mistaken identity through Bucharest[4], or the winsome local you shared nothing in common with but a kiss.
These porcelain saucers effortlessly find second lives as trinket trays and soap dishes. In your bedroom, the occasion of donning cuff links is now gilded by the memory of misadventures abroad. Spare change, rings, house keys, all convene in a now repurposed trinket tray. My crown jewel is a lopsidedly round jade green dish from the Palace Hotel Cæsar Augustus in Rome with Cæsar’s deific profile in low relief. Each time I reach for the soap, I’m graced with clean hands and the naughty memo that the better you dress, the worse you can behave.
[1]Ancient porcelain maker founded by marchese Carlo Ginori in 1735. It was acquired by Gucci in 2013, suggesting that good taste can be both bought and stolen.
[2]A second home for the clandestine, apparently. "Writers who wanted privacy or judges who changed their jurisdiction" would stay at the hotel "for months, and ended up adopting employees as their family", according to Joao Fevereiro, a 40-year old veteran of the establishment, which changed its name in 2004.
[3]"Big Mac" McGwire was one of the most prolific home run hitters in baseball history, equaling Babe Ruth's away record of 32.
[4]Presumably along Lipscani, the cobbled main street of Bucharest's Old Town. If the pursuit allows, drop into Caru' cu Bere for some excellent pork knuckle.