Experience an Unforgettable Getaway Souvenir – Shop for Toothpaste!

Six weeks after my first trip to Italy, the fresh mozzarella I brought home is long gone, and so is the hard salami and pistachio-flavored chocolate. To extend the enjoyment of my Mediterranean experience, I can still rely on the tube of Elmex-brand toothpaste that I used during my trip. As I continue to use it, each day begins and ends with “Fluoruro Amminico,” an ingredient that I assume has something to do with fluoride but haven’t bothered to translate. The lingering sense of wonder it evokes is something I find difficult to describe.

Although Elmex is technically a Swiss brand, its flavor, color, and packaging will forever be associated with the week I spent in Naples. The lingering smell of the summer air, the taste of plump local anchovies, and the sight of Mount Vesuvius from the Riviera di Chiaia all come rushing back. I purchased the toothpaste on the first morning of my trip and chose Elmex without hesitation. My habit of collecting toothpaste as a souvenir is more about celebrating the mundane than elevating it. I’m not pursuing quality, authenticity, or meaning – common pursuits among world travelers. Instead, I select toothpaste based on what seems fun, interesting, or soothing, depending on my mood. The only requirement is that it fits within the 100-milliliter limit for my carry-on luggage.

This habit has a Proustian effect, but its origins are not as profound. Years ago, when I was preparing to move to Japan for a study abroad program, I chose to ignore the advice of bringing my favorite toothpaste from home due to concerns about not liking the Japanese brands. Rejecting even the most inconsequential new experiences felt like a poor approach to embracing a new life in a new country. At 32 years old, I had learned to make the most of my days as a working stiff. Why shouldn’t I do the same as a slightly-too-old university student in Japan? I stretched my student loans and scholarship money to indulge in the novelty of everyday experiences, which abound in Tokyo.

Among these experiences, buying toothpaste that I wouldn’t find in an American drugstore became a reliable way to spice up an otherwise mundane daily activity. We often treat brushing our teeth as routine, but I try to approach it as a ritual that helps me shake off the fog of sleep and start my day fresh. Each new and unfamiliar toothpaste flavor brings back memories of a specific time and place while also serving as a gentle reminder to reflect on myself, rather than looking right through myself, as I gaze into the bathroom mirror. It allows me to appreciate even those moments spent brushing away the seeds of inevitable decay.

Years later, I find myself traveling more than I ever thought possible, often for work and always on a tight budget. Occasionally, I treat myself to more traditional souvenirs like new dinner plates or rare books. However, most of the time, I return home with nothing more than experiences and everyday items. Surprisingly, the true charm of a new toothpaste reveals itself a couple of weeks later, long after the exotic snacks have been consumed, plates stored away, and books placed on shelves. Most souvenirs disappear too quickly, while others outlast the memories they were meant to preserve. Toothpaste, on the other hand, always seems to last just long enough.

I could quench my thirst for novelty by drinking from the well of everyday experience.

When I embarked on my trip to Naples, I had nearly finished the 75-milliliter tube of TePe toothpaste I brought home from Sweden. Last year, during a winter vacation in Finland, I discovered my profound affection for Salutem – quite possibly the mildest toothpaste available worldwide. The year before that, my choice was a clove-flavored toothpaste from Botot, originally created for King Louis XV of France. And at the beginning of the Covid pandemic, during my six-month stay in a small Tokyo hotel, I embraced the prevailing gloom with Kobayashi Sumigaki charcoal toothpaste. Wherever I go, regardless of the duration of the trip, there is always a toothpaste that allows me to revisit memories, one gooey dollop at a time.

There was a time when my peculiar souvenir selection possibly stemmed from a desire to compensate for the expensive items I couldn’t afford, those I dreamed of purchasing after upgrading from economy to first class. However, nowadays, as I look at myself in the bathroom mirror, I see not only my aspirations but also my limitations. I am 43 years old and still striving, yet increasingly aware that this may be as far as I will go. Should this be the case, I will be grateful that I didn’t waste time yearning for grander souvenirs, but instead embraced the one that has served me best. Always within reach, a small token of good fortune that reminds me of all the places I have been and all the places I may have yet to explore.

Regardless of its condition – half-full or half-empty, clean or oozing with residue – each toothpaste tube delivers nostalgia in manageable doses, leaving no hint of melancholy. With the final squeeze, each tube becomes ordinary, reminding me that there are countless recipes for warding off decay, a vast world of flavor profiles and ingredients. To access these realms, I need only follow the same simple instructions: Brush. Rinse. Spit.

Joshua Hunt is a freelance writer based in Portland, Ore. He previously worked as a Tokyo-based correspondent for Reuters.