“Keep Austin Weird.”

For years, that slogan has plastered T-shirts and bumper stickers around central Texas, a wistful plea to keep the Lone Star State’s capitol city oddball and gritty. I grew up an hour’s drive south in San Antonio during the 1970s and 1980s, the height of Austin’s eccentric era, when Willie Nelson was pioneering outlaw music at tiny clubs and college students were skinny dipping in Town Lake.

My family would drive to Austin to visit my mother’s cousin Wanda, an abstract painter who lived in a ramshackle group house near the University of Texas. (Did Wanda have a dozen roommates? “It’s a commune, Jennifer!” claimed my buttoned-up mother, Carol.) In bell-bottomed jeans and a macramé vest, Wanda served us strange-but-delicious bean sprout-avocado sandwiches on homemade bread

.By the late 1980s, my oldest, dearest childhood friend Sandy had moved to Austin to attend UT. I’d drive my hatchback Ford up at least once a month from my college dorm in San Antonio to her hipster mobile home. (Yep, she was and is a bad ass.)

In our permed hair and acid-washed jeans, we’d go out on still-seedy South Congress Street, digging for vintage rhinestone necklaces at Uncommon Objects, a taxidermy-filled antiques shop, or showing up late at the since-1955 Continental Club to hear a young Lyle Lovett croon. Austin, like Sandy, felt like a cool, slightly bohemian older sister who might offer you a clove cigarette or show you how to properly cuff your Gitano jeans.

But my nostalgia and all those bumper stickers didn’t keep old, odd Austin from rapidly gentrifying and filing up with tech bros in the 21st century. Now, the quirky, hippie-meets-cowboy city I knew in my teens and 20s has mostly vanished, its rusty pickup trucks supplanted by Waymos and Teslas. Sandy moved south to McAllen for a job; most mom-and-pop shops on South Congress were forced out by high rents, replaced by the likes of—eek—Everlane and Warby Parker.

“Austin is only a little bit weird now, and you have to work harder to find the offbeat things,” says Rebekka Adams, the owner of Devil’s Details Boutique, a vintage costume jewelry and handbag store housed in a stone bungalow in the South First Street neighborhood, one of the last pockets of indie resistance.

In fact, Devil’s Details, and Austin’s dozens of other vintage boutiques might be the most marvelously strange things left in Austin. “Second-hand shopping is thriving here, I think maybe because Austin has a younger popular that embraced it early,” Adams says. “Some of it’s around South First Street, where we also have a lot of street art and other location business. And then some places are further afield, like the North Loop neighborhood, where there are like five vintage stores in buildings from the 1950s and 1960s.”

Here are 10 of the best vintage stores keeping Austin’s weird, wild charm alive. For a complete guide to nearly 50 of the city’s second-hand shops, see VintageAroundTownGuide.com for more listings, maps, and neighborhood exploring ideas.

American Drifter

Music festival goers and wannabe Austin City Limits headliners rifle through well-loved men’s and women’s work and Western wear in a mid-century house on South First Street. Think washed-in, patched up Levi’s chambray shirts, metal belt buckles shaped like armadillos, and weathered concert tees galore. (A Rolling Stones 1989 tour shirt runs $225.)

Blue Velvet Vintage Clothing

Bargain-priced women’s and men’s clothing from the 1950s-Y2K crowds a long-running showroom in the North Loop nabe. Finds could include a 1970s minidress in a Palm Springs-bright floral print ($48) or a 1950s men’s tuxedo with a white sport coat—so Rat Packy!

Charm School Vintage

A whiff of incense—maybe that’s patchouli?—greets visitors to this East Austin women’s atelier where well-organized vintage clothing (1970s maxi dresses, 1990s slogan tees) mingles with apothecary goods such as mezcal-powered perfume by Kelly + Jones and Bohemian Reves facial products. Recent finds: a cowrie-shelled appliqued Mayan huipil and Whiting & Davis vintage disco-era mesh bags. New jewelry by female makers also shines.

D&W Lighting

This vintage lamp and light fixture trove carries everything from turn-of-the-20th-century crystal chandeliers to groovy 1970s table lamps. You’ll also find shades, finials, and rewiring kits to make things shine again.

Devil’s Details Boutique

Have you fallen into some chic grandmother’s jewelry box? That’s what it feels like at Rebekka Adams’ costume bauble and bag wonderland. A see-through Lucite clutch with rhinestones runs $75 and bright 1980s earrings bedeck the walls. “Throw on the right necklace or a stack of bracelets, something fun and funky, and your whole look is elevated,” she says. Recent finds, many also available online: a 1980s-does-Byzantine jeweled cabochon ring, a French evening bag beaded with a pastel flowers ($250).

Feathers Boutique Vintage

South Congress hipsters buy (and sell) both chick’s and bloke’s clothing every day at this tucked-away gem. (Hint: enter on Milton Street, not South Congress). Many items are country music coded—women’s buckskin bellbottoms, 1950s cowboy boots, a leather belt with a snakehead buckle. There are also everyday items (soft band T-shirts, Levi’s overalls) and collectible pieces like a 1920s brown chiffon flapper dress ($398).

Garment Modern + Vintage

There’s a Carolyn Bessette Kennedy vibe to this high-end designer vintage den, a white-walled trove of 1970s through early 2000s womenswear plus a smattering of contemporary, mostly U.S.-based jewelry makers. Helpful staffers steer shoppers toward items that might suit them: a beaded 1990s Dolce & Gabbana bustier for your maximalist sister, a late 1980s Gaultier “cage” jacket in black. Just down the block, sister store Moss carries women’s consignment clothing.

Pecos Jane Vintage

A vintage coin-operated horse and cowboy boots used as flower vases bring curb appeal to this colorful women’s vintage Western wear, designer clothing, and footwear shop. Two floors of merch fit for a honkytonk catwalk include satin snap-front cowgirl shirts, boots in shades from ruby red to saddle brown, and blingy stuff to go with it all—a gold leather duster, rhinestone bracelets from the 1950s.

Room Service Vintage

A flashy neon sign announces this home décor-focused trove which features low-slung 1960s chairs, bright 1950s glassware, and a smattering of clothing from the “Mad Men” and “Boogie Nights” eras. In 3,500 packed square feet, you’re as likely to turn up a velvet-upholstered Victorian fainting sofa as a kitschy 1970s tapestry of dogs playing poker.

Uncommon Objects

Known for a witty mix of vintage housewares and oddities, this onetime South Congress mainstay relocated to South Austin in 2017. Expect all sorts of chic chaos with a Gothic vibe: old china doll heads, vintage medical equipment, fringed, striped vintage serapes.

Next week, for paying subscribers only: my hit list for what else to do in Austin, from secret taco havens to stylish hotels. Stay tuned, y’all.

In the highlands of Guatemala, Indigenous women dress in multicolored woven blouses (huipiles), contrasting patterned skirts (corte), and striped belts (faja). They create a rainbow on village streets, a kind of daily cultural runway that makes travelers feel as if they’ve stumbled into a brighter world. The mountains of Guatemala are the epicenter of the still-thriving Mayan world—and one of the world’s great crafts cultures. So it’s no surprise that the Central American country’s markets and shops overflow with vibrant souvenirs, from hand-loomed table linens to beaded jewelry and carved wooden statues of everything from angels to Day of the Dead skulls.

My husband C and I just got back from a trip to see Guatemala’s colonial cities, volcanic lakes, and buzzing market towns. Here’s what we bought—or were tempted to buy.

Colorful textiles

Huipiles—oversized, poncho-like blouses embroidered with birds, flowers, and other symbols—are worn by Mayan women across the country—and show up, in some form, at nearly every artisan market and souvenir stall. The best place to buy them is Chichicastenango, a market town high in the mountains (and not that close to major cities). It’s worth the two to three hour journey from Antigua or Lake Atitlán on market days (Thursdays and Saturdays) to shop for them or just see women wearing them in dozens of combinations and styles. (You can tell which community a woman hails from by what she has on.)

Huipiles are beautiful yet boxy, so some people (me!) find them challenging to wear. I instead opted for a kind of huipile jacket with fringe trim, one of many ways craftspeople are reimagining vintage or damaged textiles in Guatemala. Also on offer: huipiles turned into runners, pillows, or even used to upholster a chair at the Kula Maya Boutique Hotel where we stayed on Lake Atitlán. You can buy huipiles in many iterations at Chichicastenango, at the Antigua or Guatemala City artisan markets, or at Nim P’ot in Antigua.

Other textiles include striped napkins in fiesta-bright hues (try Casa de los Gigantes in Antigua), woven hammocks and bag straps. To learn more about the history, techniques, and cultural significance of huipiles and other textiles, visit the excellent Museo Ixchel in Guatemala City for videos on various weaving methods, displays of garments, and a great gift shop.

Clothing and bags sewn from traditional fabrics

Guatemalan designers are also turning heritage fabrics into contemporary clothing. I uncovered several brands and stores putting new spins on centuries-old fabrics.

Jaspé, a “tie-and-dye” multicolored cotton many call Guatemalan ikat, headlined on well-priced shirt dresses, men’s button-downs, and kids’ clothing. I bought a frock (pictured below) at Patio Chula for $75 and my husband picked up a cool shirt in a similar fabric at Mayan Boutique, both in Antigua, the boutique-filled colonial capital of Guatemala (and the first in-country stop for most travelers). Both stores ship to the U.S.; you can also score nice jaspé dresses here.

“Guate” belts

Designers from Ralph Lauren to Wrangler have ripped off or riffed on these woven fabric and leather belts hecho in Guatemala. You’ll find them at artisan markets and shops everywhere. Expect to pay about $30 in country and more from online sources like Vida Maya and Antigua Threads. My husband and I both bought them and love that they add a punch to jeans or solid pants. I’ll cinch mine around cardigans and dresses, too.

Carved wooden crafts

Brightly painted wooden masks stared out of stalls at the Antigua artisan market and other shops around the country. I didn’t buy any (my walls are so full these days!) But the parade of toothy jaguars, big-eared rabbits, wrong-continent-but-cute rhinos would look bright and charming grouped together in a kid’s room or on a screened-in porch, and they run about $7 each.

I did pick up a wiggly-limbed wooden Dias de los Muertos calaca (skeleton) at Chichicastenango to join the gang of Oaxacan papier-mache figures I already own. (I decorate my place for Day of the Dead each fall, and my husband C and I often host a big party with tacos, skull face paint, and mariachi music.)

Beadwork

Mayans have been stringing stones into beaded necklaces for millennia (peep the verdant jade necklaces found in tombs at Guatemala City’s Museo Nacional de Arte Maya, Arqueología y Etnología). You can buy jade jewelry and objects at a range of “jade museums” and galleries in Antigua and other spots. But I preferred the multicolored, inexpensive seed bead earrings, necklaces, holiday tree ornaments, and bracelets (think the Virgin of Guadalupe or stripes) sold by street vendors and at smaller shops.

Some designs are kitschy and touristy (dangling bird earrings shaped like native emerald green quetzals or red parrots); others are sophisticated (beaded lariats). In Antigua, try Los Colores de la Terra for snazzy earrings and wild, bib-like necklaces; online Mother Sierra has styles crafted in Mayan Mexico and Guatemala including necklaces and glam beaded leather bags.

Plastic baskets

Every Mayan woman in every town and market in Guatemala carries a multicolored woven plastic basket bag to stash tortillas, fabric, or whatever. They’re a terrific fusion of recycled modern material and an age-old technique….and a great way to carry home extra loot. Online, Tesoros Mayas Etsy shop has a nice selection.

Think New York City has gotten too pricey and corporate for vintage clothing boutiques and cool thrift stores? You haven’t met Liisa Jokinen. The Finnish-born, Manhattan-based photographer and fashion entrepreneur produces the NYC Vintage Map, an interactive app and website pinpointing nearly 400 brick-and-mortar secondhand stores across all five boroughs. It’s a free, constantly updated treasure hunt map where users zoom in to discover businesses by location (Brooklyn! Long Island City!) or category (designer, thrift, kid’s, home).

Jokinen also runs the roaringly popular street-style website, Tumblr (120k followers), and Instagram account (77.1 followers) NY Looks. Her main business, Gem, is a secondhand clothing search engine. Gem’s website and app allows users to search for specific items—say a pair of early 2000s Chanel sandals or a men’s 1940s velvet smoking jacket—across many secondhand retailers. It turns up listings across multiple sources, from the bigger resale sites (Etsy, eBay, Poshmark, TheRealReal) to tiny independent boutiques.

I chatted with Jokinen about how the NYC Vintage Map can launch an epic secondhand style crawl across the Big Apple, why she loves vintage, and where to people watch in New York.

How did you get involved in New York fashion?

I am 51 years old, originally from Finland, and now living in New York City! We (me and my husband) moved to the U.S. in 2014 and lived two and a half years in San Francisco before moving to New York in early 2017.

I have always been interested in clothes and style, why people wear what they wear, all the stories the clothes can tell about us and our culture.

Why are you passionate about used clothing?

I have always preferred old clothes to new ones, and I’ve worn secondhand all of my life. When I was a baby, my mother dressed me in hand-me-downs from my sister and our relatives. Later on, I was very particular about my clothes and liked to design and “order” clothes from my mother who was good at making them.

I also learned to sew myself and started thrifting when I was 13 or 14 years old. Sewing and thrifting were the only ways to get the clothes that I wanted in the small town where I grew up.

Your main business is the Gem app for secondhand shopping. Tell me about it.

Gem is a search engine for secondhand and vintage. It’s a website and an app for iPhone and Android. Shoppers can use an image and/or word search to look for items. Gem shows them matching listings across resale sites and online secondhand and vintage stores. One thing that makes Gem unique is that it shows listings from small indie stores, too, not only from big platforms like eBay and TheRealReal. The listings from indie stores are pretty hard or even impossible to find with Google.

Why did you create the NYC Vintage Map?

I needed it when we moved to NYC! I did not know where to go shopping (and shopping for me means always secondhand first), so I first created a Google Maps list of all the New York City stores, then later made an app out of it. Users can browse the stores by name, neighborhood, or category. The map is free to use and take part in—we really want to spread the word about local stores and support them.

I add new stores as soon as I find them or they open! There is no curation, we want the map to be complete. We only remove stores if they close. We also created a similar map for LA.

Why does New York have such a rich secondhand scene?

New York City is the mecca of style, and nowadays fashion also means vintage. New Yorkers are never afraid to experiment. And since vintage is the best way to create unique outfits, it is only natural that the city has almost 400 thrift and vintage stores.

What are some of your favorite New York resale shops?

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Museum gift shops often outshine the edifices they represent. (That why my parents always made me exit through the gift shop, not enter.) Spots like the MoMa Design Store and the Shops at Mount Vernon glow with books, postcards, and bibelots you can take home or give as gifts. Much of the merch encapsulates the essence of the museum or historic house. Wouldn’t a flask emblazoned with George Washington’s initials at ye olde Mount Vernon shoppe provide comfort and joy to someone?

Museums that hold tactile, crafty artifacts boast particularly dazzling stores. The vibrant shop at the Museo de Arte Populare in Mexico City sells embroidered blouses, papier-maché toys, and painted pottery similar to what you’ll see in the folk art museum’s glass cases. New York City’s criminally underrated Museum of Arts and Design hawks glassware, edgy jewelry, and stationery from its in-person and online boutique.

These sometimes scholarly, always fascinating retailers deal in gifts geared to hyper specific interests—African art, Peruvian textiles, immigrant history. And if your great aunt/college roommate/spouse truly has everything, you can buy them a museum membership or a trip to visit these places instead.

Here are 14 plus museum shops (most with online stores) to help you stuff your loved one’s stocking or mailbox. Please share your own favorites in the comments—and if you’re still stumped for a gift, consider giving them a year’s subscription to The Souvenrist.

American Swedish Institute, Minneapolis, Minnesota

Visit this Nordic cultural center to enjoy a historic mansion once occupied by Swedish immigrants, an art and history museum, and a café with Scandi chow that makes IKEA meatballs taste mediocre. The onsite shop carries foodstuffs (rhubarb jam, anise cookies), bright pottery, and books.

Gift I’d give: Tickets to an in-person or online Nordic crafting workshop (felting ornaments! Wooden spoon carving!)

American Visionary Art Museum, Baltimore, Maryland

Charm City’s harbor side salute to self-taught artists also shelters a carnival-like emporium, Sideshow. The colorful, kooky store overflows with affordable local art (Matt Sesow’s portrait of MLK, Jr., $125), wacky costume accessories (wigs, weird hats), crafting supplies, and oddball toys.

Gift I’d give: Rhinestone-studded cat-eyed sunglasses so you can impersonate “hons,” the beehived female characters in native son John Waters’ movies.

Musée des Arts Décoratifs, Paris, France

It’s hard not to be overwhelmed by the gilded 18th-century furniture, art deco dresses, and other design treasures at this museum adjacent to the Louvre. The shop sells an inspiring selection of cadeaux in person or online—no wonder the Paris fashion crowd browses here for chic jewelry, glassware, soap, and books.

Gift I’d give: A bottle of Vermeil perfume ($210) inspired by a recent exhibit on grand department stores

Museum of Contemporary Art, Sydney, Australia

Video installations, edgy Indigenous art, and site-specific works shine at this contemporary showplace on Sydney’s waterfront. The funkier-than-normal gift shop wows with wool cardigans imprinted with First Nations abstract art (shown above), a “bush body scrub” made from traditional Aboriginal ingredients, and small wooden bird sculptures by artist Allan Munkara.

Gift I’d give: Baby booties and onesies decked with platypuses and other Aussie creatures

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With its spice-hued saris, bejeweled Rajasthani palaces, and floral garlanded temples, India might be the world’s most colorful country. Its rich crafts and design scene also spans the rainbow. No wonder the shopping there is as delicious as a basketful of butter naan.

“India has historically been a hub of artistic innovation—from intricate inlay work of the Taj Mahal to the ornate façade of the Hawa Mahal,” says Victoria Dyer of India Beat, the travel agency which planned the trip my husband C. and I just took around Rajasthan and Kerala. “Over seven million artisans keep traditional crafts alive, producing everything from miniature paintings and gemstone jewelry to hand block prints and handmade paper. Fabulous colors, skilled techniques, and attention to detail make India a place where creativity is part of everyday life.”

Here’s what we bought for ourselves and as gifts while we hopped around India last month. Our tour guide Vijander Peelwa was invaluable in getting us into antiques warehouses, block-printing boutiques, and other treasure troves. I’ve also put links on where to find similar items in India and online.

Block print everything

Block printing—using carved wooden blocks to stamp patterns on fabric—dates as far back as India’s Mughal period (1526-1858). That Islamic flair still inflects these perfectly imperfect patterns on the men’s shirts, women’s dresses, PJs, and various fabric gifts (napkins, bags) at stores in Jaipur, Delhi, and Kochi including Anokhi; U.S. site here) and FabIndia (ships to the U.S.). In the U.S., John Robshaw and Les Indiennes design and import chic block-print housewares and bedding.

I also took a block-printing class in Bagru, an artisan-filled town near Jaipur. I saw indigo being mixed and bright dyed cloth drying in the sun. Book a workshop via India Beat or Studio Bagru. “Spend time with a local family in their home, and you don’t just learn the technique, you get a glimpse into their culture and way of life,” Dyer says.

Rugs

Persian invaders and traders brought rug-making to India hundreds of years ago. You can find camel-wool carpets in Jaipur in as well as dhurries. Jaipur Carpet Studio has demos and richly hued rugs and an online store. Cotton dhurries—tightly woven flat weave rugs—are on offer in carpet cooperatives outside of Jaipur; we visited charming Roopraj Durry Udyog for chai and shopping and shipped home two runners ($300-$400 each)

Bangles

Indian lore says that the tinkle of a bangle keeps bad spirits at bay. There are also multiple cultural reasons women there wear them in glass, gold, metal or lac (a moldable resin secreted by insects). We watched them being made in Jodhpur’s blue-washed old town and brought a stack home as gifts. Shop for them along Ganesh Marg and Do Kota Marg in Jodhpur.

Slippers

With their slip-on-and-off ease, traditional Indian shoes (leather chappal sandals, women’s jutti slippers) bring fairytale magic to Indian markets. I succumbed to their spell at Mumbai’s Taj Mahal Hotel where Joy Shoes (open since 1939) hawks luxury handmade footwear to Bollywood stars and fashion-mad tourists.

Joy’s leather sandals cost $50 a pair; velvet slippers run about $200. But these shoes have Manolo-level quality at J Crew prices. In the markets and street stalls throughout India simpler handmade shoes are much cheaper.

Paper goods

Much of the world’s craft paper now comes from India in the form of notebooks, art materials, and stationery. Find products in markets around Rajasthan and at Anand Stationary at New Delhi’s fancy Kahn Market.

Kantha scarves and quilts

One of the oldest embroidery forms in India, kantha stitching has been practiced since as far back as 1500 B.C. Essentially a long, running stitch, the technique is used to piece lengths of old silk or cotton saris into quilts, jackets, and scarves.

We bought a cotton throw (above) and silk scarves for gifts. Find kantha goods all over India (try Jodhpur’s Maharani Textiles & Handicrafts), online at Etsy, or from Kentucky’s Anchal, which works with fair-trade Indian artisans.

Jackets and dresses

During our trip, I posted about what I packed. I also picked up several cool, fashionable pieces as I went. “There is so much phenomenal shopping,” says Dyer. “My favorite dress at the moment is from Ecru [a women’s clothing shop in Jaipur] and my next buy is going to be one of Idli’s shirtdresses.”

I grabbed a green velvet jacket with purple embroidery in Udaipur at the shop at our chic hotel, Bujera Fort. I’ll be pairing it with a pale green oxford and jeans now that I’m back in chilly Washington, DC. It—and other colorful Indian treasures—will remind me of the warm vacation I just wrapped up.

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Shopping at a thrift store when you travel might be the ultimate cheap thrill. You have no idea whether you’ll find nothing or a secondhand shop unicorn—Chanel ballet flats for $80 in Paris, a midcentury genie-style lamp for $7 in Virginia. A September 2025 Capital One Shopping survey backs up the ongoing shift to thrift, finding that 58 percent of American consumers say they bought used apparel in the past year, primarily to save money but also to help the environment.

“In the fashion history class I teach at Pratt, nearly all of the students wear nothing but thrift-store clothes,” says Kate Sekules, a fashion historian and educator. “They’re very focused on reusing and repurposing.”

Plus, if you’re traveling in the chain store-soaked U.S., a secondhand shop is often the most interesting place to browse in town. I’ve lugged framed consignment store art on the train home from New York City and crammed my suitcase with vintage clothing from Palm Springs thrift stores. I asked some in-the-know friends for help compiling this list of thrift stores worth a detour across America.

Boys and Girls Clubs of Central Florida Thrift Store, Winter Park, Florida

Second-hand chic expert Virginia Chamlee, who writes the terrific Substack What’s Left (and the book Big Thrift Energy), recommends this thrift trove not far from Orlando. “It gets deliveries from the Disney parks every few months. They get actual Disney merch, which makes it a fun place for kids to shop,” she says. “I’m not exactly a ‘Disney adult,’ but they also get in lost and found items so sometimes you might find really great sunglasses, jackets or pieces of tech. It’s just a unique Florida-only thrifting experience!”

The Brown Elephant, three locations in metro Chicago

Chicago area thrifties love this trio of cleverly named shops where sales of donated furniture, housewares, and clothes benefit a local LGBTQ+ health center. Expect clean, well-organized stores (the warehouse-like Oak Park location is a particular winner) with well-merchandised wares: a black-and-white striped club chair paired with bright pop art paintings, mannequins decked out in gently used tuxedos and cocktail dresses.

Christ Child Opportunity Shop, Washington, D.C.

Vintage china oyster plates. Louis Vuitton satchels. A life-sized jaguar statue covered in mirrored tiles. The merch at this high-end consignment shop feels as if it was left behind by a really chic grandma. Located in D.C.’s storied Georgetown neighborhood, the Op Shop has been offering art, housewares, and jewelry on two floors since 1933. Recent finds: an orange ceramic fish tureen ($200), costume jewelry earrings from the 1980s. A portion of the sales proceeds benefits a charity for lower-income children.

City Opera Thrift Shop, New York, New York

The word “curated” gets tossed around ad nauseaum in shopping and fashion. But it truly applies to this Chelsea gem, where second-hand clothing, art, and furniture is sold and shown around themes that change a few times a year, such as “Design from Around the World” or “Vintage.” Treasures I’ve scored range from a 1960s handbag needlepointed with flowers ($60) to a Nili Lotan lace blouse ($80). Framed artworks and furniture also shine, and don’t miss the décor-focused basement.

Diversity Thrift, Richmond, Virginia

The Tuesday $1 clothing happy hour at this jumbo thrift palace resembles a New York City sample sale, except with cheaper prices. Outsized rooms are devoted to furniture, books, and clothing with sales going to LGBTQ+ healthcare and other causes. I’ve bought stacks of midcentury souvenir plates saluting Boston, Egypt, and other locales plus pristine vintage clothing (a blue cashmere/wool princess coat from the 1960s for $15). Large furniture—dining tables, chests of drawers, mid-century sofas—merits renting a U-Haul.

Double Take, Santa Fe, New Mexico

Adobe walls and an exterior cowpoke mural hint at the wild Western wonderland shoppers find at this two-level consignment store near the Guadalupe Railyard District. The first level gives Johnny Cash-gone-chic vibes with racks of vintage snap-button cowboy shirts, worn-in boots, and womenswear fit for latter day Georgia O’Keeffes. (Think Pendleton-print skirts, fringed jackets, and so so much denim.) Upstairs, room vignettes hold cowhide-covered chairs, Pueblo paintings, and enough graphic-patterned Navajo rugs to furnish a ranch house or three.

Finders Keepers Vintage & Vinyl, Plymouth, Michigan

Interior designer and writer Emily Walker, a Michigan native, loves to go thrifting on trips back home. “This eclectic shop near Detroit is full of clothing from the late 1960s and 1970s,” she says. “It’s also got a huge selection of accessories like belts, scarves, hats, and sunglasses.” Adding to the groovy vibe: Hundreds of vinyl records and home items like lamps and artwork.

Junkee Clothing Exchange, Reno, Nevada

A giant mural of Mick Jagger gazes down from the wall and salesclerks with neon-dyed feathers in their hair strut amid the racks at this two-level, 15,000-square-foot thrift and costume temple. Known for outfitting festivalgoers for Burning Man (121 miles north), Junkee overflows with both used and new clothing at reasonable prices: a Pucci-esque print 1970s maxi dress for $20, men’s Hawaiian shirts for $15, goggles and captains’ hats for Burners for $10 or $20. On the second floor, there’s a funky antique mall.

My Favorite Place, Chamblee, Georgia

Anna Weaver, a Washington, D.C.-based, Atlanta-bred vintage dealer, loves heading back to Georgia for thrifting, particularly to Chamblee, a town about 45-minutes from the Big A. “My Favorite Place harks back to a time when antique stores outnumbered restaurants and coffee shops here,” she says. “It’s a little rough around the edges and requires patience and the ability to dig. But every time I go home to Atlanta I beeline here. I love finding treasures among their packed shelves.”

Revivals, Palm Springs, California and other SoCal locations

“New York has Bergdorfs, Dallas has Neimans, and Palm Springs has Revivals,” says Palm Beach-based travel writer Andrew Nelson (author of the book “Here Not There”). “It’s a chain of four thrift stores featuring great finds like a Russell Wright desk for $150 and gently worn men’s suits for 50 bucks.” True to the Coachella Valley location, stores are high on bright-colored mod goods from 1960s lamps to contemporary designer clothing.

Few items of clothing evoke more fear and loathing than a bathing suit. Yet a good one-piece or sporty bikini is the first thing I throw in my suitcase for a trip, whether I’m beach bound or not. Plus you never know if George Clooney will invite you on his yacht or if your hotel has a rooftop pool (e.g. San Antonio’s Mokara Hotel, Cape Town’s Silo Hotel).

I don’t believe in body shaming. But it’s a perpetual challenge to find a suit that will A. flatter my size 8 frame and B. not offend the locals. The J. Crew maillot I wore last time I was in Tulum seemed demure among topless European beachgoers. Last fall in Turkey my modest bikini felt outrageous in a hotel pool full of women in waterproof headscarves and ankle-to-neck swim unitards.

Splash! A Century of Swimming and Style, a new exhibit at the Design Museum in London, plunges into bathing suit history, suggesting there’s always been a push-pull between function and form. “Swimwear garments are often designed to cover, emphasize or flatter specific parts of the body,” says assistant curator Tia Dahyabhai. “It can seem exclusive, catering only to particular bodies. This is evident in the pervasive-yet-damaging notion of being ‘beach body ready’.”

Splash! reveals the sea change in water wear over the past century. In the 1920s, vacationers began swimming instead of just bathing, ushering out the pantaloons and long dresses Victorian women wore to wade into the surf. The liberated Jazz Age saw women and men donning skimpier garments to swim laps or romp on the beach. The exhibit shows this evolution with 1920s woolen one-pieces, 1930s beach pajamas, early bikinis (birth date 1947), and Pamela Anderson’s “Bay Watch” red maillot.

Twentieth-century innovations made bathing suits sleeker and more user friendly. “In the 1920s the development of circular knitting machines meant wool could be used to create ribbed swimwear, making the material stretchy and lightweight,” says Dahyabhai. “From the late 1950s new stretch synthetic yarns, including Lycra, dominated swimwear.”

I won’t get to London for the exhibit, but reading about it reminded me I haven’t bought a bathing suit in ages. And I’ll be dipping into onsens (hot springs) in Japan in a few weeks and hitting the beach in Florida in June. So I took a deep dive into swimwear, surfacing some new-to-me brands and flattering shapes.

Suit Buying Tips

During nearly a decade running fashion photo shoots for the Washington Post, I learned a lot about what makes a bathing suit flattering. In general, I look for:

*A built-in bra: The girls need support.

* Ruching. It compliments most figures and conceals lumps or bumps.

* Dark colors: Black, blue, or a deep green can be slimming and sophisticated.

* Prints: Bold florals or tribal pattern create interest and mask figure flaws.

* Shaping: Many brands squeeze and lift, like Spanx of the sea.

A Selection of Suits

Here are a range of fresh brands and suits—including some suggested by the Design Museum’s Dahyabhai.

I bought two for Japan—before my Tokyo-born hair stylist informed me those hot springs are a single-sex, skinny dip affair.

Albion Fit

This affordable U.S. brand excels at tankinis with skirted bottoms, floral-print maillots, and not-too-skimpy bikinis. Price $

Andie Swim

Minimal, Millennial-beloved suits in solid hues or subtle prints, often with details like snaps or interesting straps. Price $

Gottex

This moderately priced brand founded in Tel Aviv in the 1950s turns out reliable, well-fitting maillots (above) and bikinis (above) in vibrant patterns. Price $-$$

Kamara

An Indigenous-owned Aussie brand merges bright patterns and high SPF. Price $$

Lanuuk

Modest swimwear line with styles from high-waisted bikinis to full-length swim tights and arm-covering tops. Price $

Maryasia

Known for elegant, scallop-edged suits, this is a splurgy jet-set fave. Price $$$

Shan

Sleek Canadian brand with built-in shaping and artful abstract prints. Price $$$

Une Piece

Aussie brand with high SPF fabrics, built-in bras, and pin-up girl appeal. Price $$

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Snakeskin cowboy boots lurked among broken-in riding boots and slightly deflated faux-Chanel ballet flats in a stall at the Georgetown Flea Market. They resembled a feisty mustang among prissy East Coast thoroughbreds. With their pointed toes and textured hide, the snake boots spoke to me—did I detect a Texas drawl?—on a cold Sunday morning about a decade ago.

The cowgirl goddesses seemed to have benchmarked them for me—they were not only in my size—they ran a mere $25 dollars! (Even though I was editing a fashion magazine for the Washington Post at the time, I was style rich and paycheck poor.) I smacked down some cash, and ever since, I’ve babied those burnished vintage boots—resoling them, rubbing them with conditioner, and using them with abandon.

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Like many Texan-raised women, I adore cowboy boots, shopping for them—and wearing them—when I travel. As I wrote last week, I don’t pull an Orville Peck/Patsy Cline and pair boots with wide-brimmed hats, fringed skirts or Lone Ranger masks. In college in San Antonio, we mixed our weathered boots with short skirts or sundresses. (Now I’m inspired by Fort Worth mayor Mattie Parker, who rocks her boots with full skirts and pearls, like a debutante who runs a horse ranch.)

Here’s my advice about buying vintage cowboy boots (hint: some cowpoke broke them in for you!) and a list of shops that specialize in them from California to Calgary.

Tips on buying vintage cowboy boots

Though cowboy boots have been around since the 19th-century, the ones you’ll round up at flea markets, thrift stores, and vintage shops will probably date from the mid 20th century until today. “You might luck into a great pair of vintage boots at a yard sale, and it might have better quality leather than a new pair,” says Jennifer June, a custom boot maker and author of the book, Cowboy Boots: The Art and Sole. In general, look for:

· Leather tops and leather soles. This both signals a quality boot, and means you can repair or polish boots back to glory. “And give a vintage boot a gentle squeeze,” June says. “If it sounds crunchy, the leather is way dry and will crack.”

· Big-name brands. Famed Western boot makers with decades of history include Lucchese, Tony Lama, Nocona, Hyer, and Acme. There are plenty of good no-name boots, too.

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· Pricing. Thrift store styles might cost $25; vintage 1970s and 1980s styles from luxe makers like Lucchese could run $500 or more.

· A slightly snug fit. Even an older boot should stretch to fit your foot, but you’ll often go down half a size in cowboy styles. Nobody wants a boot flying off on the dance floor or during a dash for an Uber.

Stores that sell vintage cowboy boots

Ebay, Etsy, and a stampede of online retailers offer throwback boot styles. But it’s more fun—and you’ll probably get a better fit (and better deal)—at these brick-and-mortar stores. Jennifer June’s comprehensive cowboy boot website, Dim Lights, lists many such stores—plus custom boot makers—too. Here are a few I’ve turned up or shopped at around the U.S. and Canada.

Note: This shop resource list and others like it are for paid subscribers. Most other Souvenirist content remains free.

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“How come your daddy’s got no boots?”

That question, one part insult, two parts bewilderment, came from my third-grade crush Jeff P. Jeff and I were awaiting parental pick-ups in the shade of a scraggly oak tree outside of our San Antonio, Texas elementary school. He wore kid-sized western boots and had ragtag blond hair that kept flopping in his eyes as he hit me in the arm with his Dukes of Hazzard lunchbox. I was smitten.

As my father walked up to get me, Jeff stopped whacking me and gawped. Dad, in loafers and a tweed blazer, looked like what he was—a liberal-arts professor transplanted from Chicago. He didn’t, like so many other Texas fathers, wear round-toed Roper boots with his jeans or pointy-toed boots with his suits.

As Dad bundled me into our mustard yellow station wagon, I wondered aloud, “How come you don’t buy some boots?” Dad side-eyed me and muttered, “I don’t ride in the rodeo, and I don’t work at a ranch.”

He had never slid his skinny feet into Luccheses, Tony Lamas, or other boots with Lone Star State pedigrees. But cowboy footwear was (and still is) everywhere in South Texas. At my high school, “kicker” kids paired boots with “stacked” Wranglers (aka longer denim that wrinkles around the ankle). In college, George Strait lookalikes wore snub-toed Justin ropers to waltz around Gruene Hall, the 1878 dance spot between San Antonio and Austin.

Two-stepping into my own cowboy boots

By college in the 1980s, I had succumbed to the honky-tonk spell of cowboy boots, scoring scuffed black Luccheses at an Austin thrift store. My Ozarks-born mother was aghast. “You aren’t a honky-tonk singer, Jennifer Nell!”

But I wore those boots everywhere. With high-waisted, acid-washed jeans, they went dancing at the Gruene; under straight, thigh-clutching 1980s miniskirts, two-stepping was impossible, but slam dancing to R.E.M. was not.

I’m not a native Texan; I moved with my family to San Antonio as a toddler. But those Luchheses transformed me into a hometown cowgirl, albeit one more likely to wear them with a grunge-era flannel dress than a spangled western hat.

When I shimmy into boots, I feel formidable, a Southwestern superhero who can bargain for turquoise in Arizona or stomp through London art galleries. (For the latter, I’d wear boots under tweed, wide-leg pants for a Harry Potter-meets-Yellowstone vibe.) “There’s such an outlaw quality to cowboy boots, which helps you be very inventive with how you wear them,” says Jennifer June, an Austin bootmaker and author of Cowboy Boots: The Art & Sole.

“I’m constantly experimenting with my boots,” says Lizzy Chestnut Bentley, the founder of CITY Boots, a high-end brand with stores in Fort Worth, Austin, and Houston. “I love pairing mine with long flowing skirts or dresses for a feminine vibe. With a mini skirt and a blazer, they look really modern and powerful.”

Cowboy boots go on my feet (not in the suitcase) for trips back to Texas or to Santa Fe, where my husband and I dream of moving. I’ve shopped for them from Texas to Nevada and beyond, picking up vintage pink suede kicks at Junkee in Reno, basic tobacco brown knee highs from Tecovas in Austin, and vintage snakeskin boots, which cost just $25 at the Georgetown Flea Market in Washington, D.C. They’re under my sleek Cos shirtdresses for dinners out, and for the airplane, I layer them under Donni’s knit kick-flair pants.

I’m not sure what my Dad, or Jeff, would think. But years after I moved away from Texas, my footwear remains rooted in the Lone Star State.

Here’s more on where cowboy boots came from and a resource guide to buying them new. Next week’s newsletter will cover vintage and custom boot sources.

A short history of tall boots

Though humans on horseback have donned boots for millennia (hey, Gingis Khan!), the cowboy boot first toed into style in late 19th-century America. “They have their roots in the boots Spanish settlers wore, but rich ranchers and even rodeo riders put them on both for work and because they wanted to stand out,” says fashion historian Sonya Abrego, author of Westernwear: Postwar American Fashion and Culture. Western movies and TV shows of the mid 20th century left a fashion bootprint, too.

Cowboy boots are purpose-driven: tall shanks to protect your calves on long cattle drives; angled, chunky heels for edging your horse onward, pointed toes to make it easier to stick your foot into the stirrups. But their fanciful embellishments made them popular both on and off the range. Think tooled leather, metallic inlays, and curlicued, stitched “toe bugs,” which decorate boot tops and keep them from wrinkling.

Boots can be both for a place (honky-tonk dance halls, Paris streets) and of it. Custom bootmakers such as San Antonio’s Little’s Boot Company and El Paso’s Rocketbuster sew pairs emblazoned with maps and symbols of New York City (yellow taxis, the Statue of Liberty), Texas (knee-to-toe bluebonnets) and Italy (Rome’s colosseum in silver leather). “Cowboy boots are an American art form and a way we tell stories,” says June.

Whether you’re buying vintage, custom or premade boots from “rack” brands (Lucchese, Tecovas), the construction is similar. A sturdy leather sole is attached to the boot’s uppers via wooden pegs and stitching. Heels are formed of stacked wood, usually about an inch to 1.5 inches high. It all adds up to a shockingly comfortable boot, as suited for sliding around a sawdust Texas dance floor as strolling around a foreign city.

My favorite ready-made boot brands

There are three ways to buy cowboy boots: ready-made (or off the rack), custom, and vintage. Next week, this newsletter will talk about vintage and custom options. This week, here’s a list of my top spots for new boots. Expect to pay anywhere from about $200 to $1,000 and up a pair.

Allens Boots: Austin, Texas: The smell of leather greets you at this longtime South Congress Street boot emporium, which stocks its own line as well as brands like Azulado.

CITY Boots: Austin, Houston, Fort Worth. Lizzy Chestnut Bentley founded this women’s footwear brand in 2015, because she “felt there was a void in the market for a modern, feminine boot for the city girl, or let’s say, the urban cowgirl.” High-end, well-made styles come in girly colors (lavender, pink) embellished with hearts, evil eyes, and other designs.

Fraulein Boots: Two San Antonio sisters decorate their luxe boots with roadrunners, cacti, and other Western symbols in bright hues. Buy them online or at several boutiques in the Southwest.

Justin: Founded in 1879, this Texas brand (and sibling Nocona and Tony Lama) cater to working ranchers and rodeo riders as well as weekend cowpokes with women’s, men’s, and kid’s styles. Lama excels at exotic leathers like striated caiman.

Lucchese: 28 stores across the U.S. Founded in San Antonio by Italian immigrant brothers in 1883, this high-end brand offers men’s and women’s boots in leather and exotics (ostrich, lizard). Urbane cowgirls come in for the popular, knee-grazing Priscilla (around $1,000), which looks hip with shorter dresses.

Old Gringo: Fort Worth: Want boots in fiesta-bright colors or decked with flowers and Day of the Dead skulls? Find them and other Mexican-made styles at the Fort Worth Stockyards HQ of this long-running brand, which also sells online and through multiple retailers. OGs scream Coachella or Jason Isbell concert.

Tecovas: dozens of U.S. stores. Tecovas puts out mid-priced ($250-$700) boots for men and women and operates down-home boutiques where customers sip bourbon while they shop. The brand frequently uses goat leather, which is rich in oils that keep boots supple. Standout styles: Ropers for him, booties for her.

Gabriel Sánchez, a tour guide friend in Oaxaca told me a shocking story last fall. In his artisan-filled region, where pottery workshops dot the countryside and local boutiques overflow with crafts, some clients hire him to ferry them to the local mega mall, where Zara keeps company with H&M. “I take them where they want, but it makes me sad,” he says. “There’s a lot more to see and buy than that.”

That kind of increasing, depressing globalization also permeates U.S. cities, where it can be hard to find indie boutiques selling home décor, books, clothing, or anything really. But studies show that Americans, given the chance, would spend more money to shop locally.

It’s why I buy many of my clothes when I’m on the road. I research where the most interesting homegrown boutiques are, starting with a callout on social media and a web search. Then I’ll deep-dive into blogs, TikTok, and even convention and visitors center websites, which often list shops or detail retail-heavy neighborhoods.

“Before I travel anywhere, I do as much Googling as I can to figure out where the independent shops are,” says Lani Inlander, of Washington, D.C. personal shopping service Real Life Style. “Usually, once you find one cool shop, it’ll be near other interesting boutiques you’ll just stumble across.”

More and more friends are asking me how to avoid buying via Amazon, Target, and fast-fashion retailers.

These independent stores feel like stylish solutions. Shopkeepers fill their racks and shelves with brands and goods they believe in—not necessarily items that’ll turn the highest profit. “One’s wardrobe is always better with a little serendipity, and finding new shops in another city helps with that,” Inlander says. “There’s a sense of wonder and discovery with in-person shopping.”

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Staffers might include the store owner or the person who designed your clothes, and they tend to be helpful and invested in guiding you toward a magical pair of dancing shoes or a gown for your cousin’s wedding. Plus you can hit retailers for travel intel, such as where to get a great flat white coffee in Brooklyn or a great Cuban sandwich in Miami.

The merch at indie boutiques can be more expensive than fast fashion, but if you’re trying to consume more consciously, these stores usually fall into the “fewer, finer, funkier” category.

Over the next few months, I’ll be sharing periodic guides to my favorite indie clothing retailers around the country. All shops mentioned will be vetted by me or other colleagues in the fashion or travel world. First up, the East Coast:

Note that, for the first time, I’ll be paywalling these guides. This means that, to read the entire list, you’ll need to become a paid subscriber. Most other stories will remain free.

Brooklyn Circus, Brooklyn and Manhattan

Haitian American designer Ouigi Theodore draws on the melting pot culture of Brooklyn with men’s streetwear and shoes, sold both in its OG Crown Heights headquarters and a store on Soho’s Canal Street. In addition to shoe and sweatshirt collabs with Lee and Puma, the Black-owned business produces sleek riffs on varsity jackets, sunglasses, and logo jerseys. Both locations sponsor frequent events, from group runs through Brooklyn to in-store DJ sets from Theodore himself.

Bus Stop Boutique, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Amid the colonial houses and 19th-century storefronts of Queen Village, this downtown Philly women’s shoe store features both its own brand (colorful velvet oxfords or patterned leather booties) and styles from lesser-known labels such as All Black, Vagabond, and Denmark’s sustainable Woden. Also on the shelves in the skinny showroom: vegan “leather” handbags and socks in pink stripes or multi-hued dots.

Coniglio, Palm Beach, Florida

Designer Christina Coniglio cut her chops at LoveShackFancy and (sadly defunct) boho brand Calypso St. Barth before opening this women’s and men’s boutique/brand in her native Palm Beach. Set off by flamingo-pink walls decked with family photos and straw sun hats, the boutique offers ruffled pareos in punch-bright hues, tie-dyed caftans, and unisex button down shirts in whimsical prints (orange parrots on a field of lime green). The drops are limited and the sizing flexible, meaning voluminous dresses and wrap skirts that adjust to pregnancy or just an overindulgence in Key lime tartlets from nearby Ganache Bakery.

Elk Head Clothing, Atlanta, Georgia

In Atlanta’s historic Fourth Ward neighborhood, this up-and-coming menswear brand deals in Americana-inspired shirts, pants, and accessories like oil-tanned leather belts. Owner/designer Garrett Hilgendorf draws on his sporting- and outdoors-mad Michigan childhood with well-made, well-priced casual styles such as a popover, bandana-print shirt and Japanese twill chinos ($178). Elk Head’s wood-paneled boutique is located inside Ponce City Market, with restaurants and shops in a converted 1928 Sears warehouse.

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Long before liquid bans, I remember my grandmother traveling with a hard-sided Samsonite train case. The blocky, boxy bag—filled with lipstick, sticky hairspray, and cold cream—slid under the airplane seat. When she showed up at our house dangling it in one hand, she briefly resembled a Hitchcock film heroine. That is, until she opened up the case and pulled out her ever-present stack of Kleenex and supply of cough drops.

I want a new carry-on bag with that kind of swagger. I mean a piece of what gran would call “hand luggage” to take on the plane when I’m checking a larger suitcase. My current carry-on, an unwieldy nylon Away tote, digs into my shoulders and gets too heavy on long walks through the airport. (Sunday, I cursed it as I walked 8,000 steps to get from the C terminal to the E terminal in Houston.)

This unicorn of a carry-on might be a backpack or a smaller lighter duffle bag. It’ll be a survival kit for those lost-in-space hours on the plane—or time stuck overnight in an airport Marriott. It needs to be large enough for gadgets and goods to deal with travel delays, boredom, or a crummy night’s sleep.

I’m also vehemently anti status bag; not only are Chanel’s interlocked Cs out of my price range, it’s just dumb to travel with accessories that people might want to steal, or that positions you as a “White Lotus”-level mark for pickpockets.

I study the measurements, volume, and fine print for bags I’m pondering. Many brands detail what you can store in your sack (a laptop, please!) and showcase a bored-looking person holding or wearing the bag.

Here are a few of the carry-ons I’m eyeballing, plus a short list of the unsexy-but-necessary things I’ll stash in it.

Note: Any products mentioned are my picks, and I don’t make any money if you buy something.

A few backpacks

My physical therapist says one-shoulder bags are the enemy of my creaky shoulder and computer-caused tennis elbow. He’d hopefully approve of one of these backpacks. An added bonus is you can slip one on and still carry a slice of airport pizza, your small child, or a purse.

Tote bags

I won’t pitch my Away tote, which works swell for car trips. But I might buy one of these sleek totes if my backpack plan doesn’t pan out. I watch for multiple compartments, a sturdy bottom, and a zippered top—open bags tend to tip over and spill your treasures.

What goes in my bag:

Comfy ear plugs

Yep, I’ve got noise-cancelling headphones, too, and they’re great for watching a movie or listening to a podcast on a flight. But if I just want to sleep—or block out the dude in the next seat yapping about Elon Musk and DOGE—I use silicone ear plugs.

Unlike foam ear plugs, which feel like jamming bullets in your ear canal, silicon ones simply form a seal over your ear opening. Result: Quiet, underwater-like bliss either on the plane or in your hotel, where a snoring partner/car noise/Mardi Gras might disrupt your naps.

Baby wipes

Airport sandwiches explode on your shirt; plane bathrooms run out of toilet paper; the world is just gross in general. Bring a travel-size pack of baby wipes to solve these and other problems. They’re less likely to bleach out stained clothes than a Tide Pen, and, they can also remove makeup, seat tray schmutz, and more.

An eye mask or dark sunglasses

Overly bright cabins. That guy in the window seat who WILL NOT shut the blind even in the blazing sun. A sleeping mask blots out such annoyances for snoozing or overnight flights. I prefer silky ones, but my husband C swears by foam ones with molded cups that don’t touch his eyelids.

A change of clothes and a big T-shirt

I am often team carry everything on. But for longish trips, coldish weather—or visits to spots I might, um, shop—I check a larger suitcase. Statistically, lost bags are increasingly unlikely. But if your checked suitcase is delayed—or a missed connection leaves you trapped in Indiana or Istanbul overnight—fresh clothes and something to sleep in can make you feel human in the inhumane world of air travel.

Tourists in bedazzled Mexican sombreros crowd the boarding area of most flights out of San Antonio, Texas. In massive-brimmed, sequined velvet hats—usually worn with shorts or sweats—the travelers resemble tequila commercial extras who have forgotten their mariachi suits and guitars. 

As a kid, I’d scoff at these gringos whenever my family got on a Southwest flight out of my hometown. Their muy grande hats seemed destined for dustbins from Duluth to Denver, silly mementos snatched up after downing one too many margaritas near the Alamo. 

“Are they going to wear those to their jobs, or maybe to do a hat dance on the plane?” I’d joke to my mother before slouching down the plane jetway, an insufferably insecure 14-year-old in a San Antonio Spurs baseball cap. 

I hadn’t gone enough places enough times to understand that eventually, we all become that scourge of teens everywhere: The Person Who Buys a Hat on Vacation. This happens when you neglect to pack gear to combat the Sicilian sun/Seattle rain/Canadian cold, or if you fall hard for local finery: shell-studded gnawa hats in Morocco, colorful wool sauna hats in Helsinki—just soak them in water to stay cooler in the steam room.

Hats can instantly transform or transport anyone who wears them. (Just think how many Halloween costumes get their power from a sultan’s turban or Cleopatra’s headdress.) “If I buy this cowboy hat in Santa Fe, then I’ll finally try line dancing!” or “This Parisian beret will help me improve my French accent.”

The impulse to transport your holiday self back to reality may supersede practicality. (For example, the ginormous straw caballero hat I bought in a Mexican border town years ago, now collecting dust in my attic instead of compliments at fiestas.)

But still, “hats make a great souvenir, particularly if they’re important in the culture of a place,” says Anna Fuhrman, the owner of Washington, D.C. hat and gift emporium Proper Topper. “There are little felt ones in the ‘stans’ or crown-like ones from Africa.”

Fuhrman decorates her home with hats perched on candlesticks or hung on the wall: a Scottish Glengarry cap trimmed in plaid, a round kufi from West Africa embellished with cowry shells and turquoise.

I too, have returned from trips with magic hats, as much objets d’art as head warmers. I have a trucker cap from Mexico embroidered with mythical otomi animals and a beaded Yoruba ade crown. The latter, a cone-shaped Nigerian headdress I bundled back from Johannesburg, decorates my living room, never worn, but often an ice breaker at parties.

Hats for your next trip

One hat strategy for voyagers? Acquire whatever headgear you need when you arrive at your destination: a rakish Colombian vueltiao (see video below) in sunny, seaside Cartagena, a ski cap knitted with a blazing red Norwegian flag in Bergen, where fjord-going tourists (me included) generally encounter frigid weather, even in summer.

Or come prepared. “I always bring a few hats—straw for somewhere sunny, a fleece-lined beanie when I visit my daughter at college in Scotland,” Fuhrman says. “But I focus on crushable, packable styles for travel, since you don’t want to be that person with the enormous hat in the airline overhead bin, blocking other people’s stuff.”

Options in Fuhrman’s store and web shop include a camping or safari-ready sunhat, a yellow, wide-brimmed rain hat, or, for men, tweed driving caps ideal for fall rides in rented convertibles or strolls around European capitals.

My well-traveled Californian friend Randy Steward is also a hat connoisseur. “My wife Cathy and I have wool fedora-style hats from Yellow 108 that we’ve been wearing on trips to places like Yosemite and wine tasting expeditions to Paso Robles or Santa Ynez along the Central Coast,” he says. “We’re both mindful of the sun, plus wearing a hat keeps you warmer.”

If I’m headed someplace sun-soaked, I usually bring a squishable Eric Javits hat. (The brand’s ladylike, synthetic straw or wool hats are pricey, but can often be found at a discount via Nordstrom Rack or gently used on TheRealReal—see this, this or this.)

For rain or cold, brands based in chillier, wetter lands excel at warming headgear. I’m eyeballing UK-made wool beanies by Mars Knitwear or mohair bucket hats from Sweden’s COS to face winter here in Washington, D.C. and in New York City (where I’m heading come January). Denmark’s aptly named Rains crafts both precip-fighting coats and brimmed water-resistant hats. And I just nabbed this faux black-patent cloché from Dutch brand Bronte hats, which will hopefully arrive before I fly to Istanbul for a conference this Wednesday.

No matter where you’re traveling, the wealth of interesting hats makes it easy to let the world go to your head, to top your skull with something both useful and distinctly of a given place. “Hats make a statement all on their own,” Fuhrman says. “They speak about where they’re from, and start conversations wherever they go.”

One of the pleasures of frequent travel is seeing how people in faraway places dress. I’ll linger on a Paris park bench or plop down in a Marrakech cafe and watch the “street fashion”—garcons in smartly tied scarves and sharp suits speeding by, women in a blur of caftans strolling in groups.

I also want to know where residents shop for their clothes, and to uncover which local designers are sartorially riffing on the destination’s heritage, climate, and readily available materials.

Take the men’s linen shirts printed with mythical animals I happened on at Bogatá’s Soloio, which seemed to sum up the Euro-meets-New World panache of Colombia. In Jaipur, the womenswear at Vrisá combines traditional Indian techniques (spiderweb-fine embroidery, sunset-over-the-Ganges-bright dyes) with modern shapes (cropped tunics, sweeping trench coats)—easy to wear from Rajasthan to Raleigh.

With fair-trade practices and a focus on sustainability, these brands are usually far from fast fashion. Buying clothing or accessories from such designers allows you to both sample the local culture and to bring home pieces that aren’t too costume-y for the office or a cocktail party. Plus such ateliers stand out in a sea of “wherever you go, there you are” chains. (“I bought this top at Zara in Tokyo” isn’t a good vacation story.)

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Here are some of the best fashion designers I’ve turned up on recent travels—or have bookmarked for upcoming journeys. All have online stores, too, and ship to the U.S., though nothing beats wandering into their hometown headquarters, trying on a shirt or dress, and maybe meeting the proprietor.

And please share any unique designers or stores—fashion or otherwise—you’ve unearthed on your wanderings in the comments section. I’ll include them in a future newsletter.

Olga Fisch Folklore, Quito, Ecuador

Founded in 1942 by Olga Fisch—a Hungarian Jew and Bauhaus artist who had fled Europe—this South American collective puts modernist spins on traditional folk art. Think handmade wool ponchos in edgy, hand-dyed bright colors or traditional shigra bags, woven from agave fibers but disco-fied with bamboo handles, black leather fringe, or pink feathers. The Quito flagship—all glowing wood floors and matte adobe walls—used to be Fisch’s home; a second-story gallery showcases her notable jewelry and art collection.

MaxHosa Africa, Johannesburg, South Africa

The beadwork and brightly patterned textiles of South Africa’s Xhosa people inspire luxe knitwear such as skirts zigzagged in black, white and red and men’s jackets decked in acid green and turquoise squares. Visit one of the brand’s multiple boutiques in SA to join the pricey-but-gorgeous color riot—and see why chic celebs like Beyoncé and cowboy crooner Orville Peck wear the brand. These are splurgy, investment pieces, for sure, as dramatic and vibrant as the mural-covered streets of “Joberg,” where MaxHosa is based.

(Note—you won’t pay sales tax at the jewel box MaxHosa shop in Johannesburg’s O.R. Tango airport. The international terminal overflows with other South African clothing shops, including Presidential Shirts, which sells the crisp, African print buttondowns once favored by Nelson Mandela.)

Azza Fahmy, Cairo, Egypt

Azza Fahmy learned to shape gold in the 14th-century Khan El Khalili souk in downtown Cairo. Drawing on that experience and a passion for Islamic and ancient Egyptian symbols, she insets sapphires into the backs of gold scarab bracelets, shapes silver into papyrus flower rings, and emblazons Sufi poetry on cufflinks. Fahmy’s sleek boutiques in Cairo and throughout the Middle East attract latter-day pharaohs and queens.

Baz Inc., Sydney, Australia

The quality of light—and life—seem sun-soaked and bright in Oz’s biggest city. This may be why designer Carolyn “Baz” Whitford infuses so much rich color into her easy, elegant dresses, louche trousers, and trademark velvet tuxedo jackets. Prints are a strength, like a blue-and-white silk toile skirt (pictured) trimmed in rain-slicker yellow. Whitford’s snug boutiqe is nestled amid the coffee shops, art galleries, and fashion boutiques of Macleay Street in Potts Point, a hip harbor side neighborhood.

Vrisá, Jaipur, India

In India’s Rajasthan state, craftspeople have been embroidering and block-printing fine cottons for hundreds of years. Several clothing makers in Jaipur push these traditions in new ways, including Vrisá, which turns botanical-print silk into slim women’s pants and flower-embroidered white voile into a sweeping dress fit for a bride.

It’s one of several smart design boutiques in the elegant, Mughal-style Kanota Arcade shopping center. Don’t miss Tokree Jaipur for channel-quilted women’s jackets in candy colors and Andraab for super-fine cashmere shawls and wraps.

Soloio, Bogatá and Cartagena, Colombia

Alejandra Brizio and Fernando Durban met in Italy, wed in Spain, and now operate this cheeky menswear company out of Colombia. Known for men’s linen shirting decked with zodiac symbols, octopi, and other fanciful prints, Soloio runs boutiques in Bogatá, Cartagena, and Barranquilla. Swimwear—pink-and-green palm emblazoned women’s bikinis, suzani-style men’s trunks—seem designed for lounging on one of Colombia’s Caribbean beaches.

Tikkiwallah, Chiang Mai, Thailand

Thai and Laotian craftspeople work with company owner Rachna Sachasinh to transform indigenous plants (hemp, jungle vines) into dead-simple clothing and accessories—think The Row, the southeast Asian version.

Make an appointment at her home studio to see chic woven bags in colors like orange and indigo, square-neckline tie-dyed dresses, and pants inspired by traditional fisherman’s garb. Home textiles—hemp duvet covers, striped pillows—also shine.

The worst night’s rest I ever experienced happened in a cheap motel close to the Houston Hobby Airport. The plastic-wrapped mattress made a crinkling noise every time I moved, and the heater wheezed as if it was infected with bronchitis. Then there was my itchy, makeshift nightdress: a chintzy, Grinch green “I ❤️ Houston” T-shirt, which strangely smelled of burned rubber.

That January night, a rare Texas ice storm had trapped me between San Antonio (my childhood hometown) and Washington, D.C. (where I live now). Southwest Airlines blitzed me to the creaky motel for the night; my checked suitcase—the one with the cozy, spaceman-print flannel PJs in it—had jetted to D.C. on an earlier flight. I was forced to raid the airport gift shop for something to sleep in.

The next day, tired and reeking of overly flowery motel soap, I swore I’d put spare pajamas and clean underwear in my carry on forever after. And I began giving more thought to the sleepwear I packed for travel.

Ideally, whatever I wear to bed on the road should be a blend of homey comfort and “I’m on holiday” hedonism. I bring a silk sleep mask and fuzzy socks (fab on the floors of hotels that don’t provide slippers).

Like nearly 75 percent of Americans, pajamas are my go-to. They have a girls-meet-boys, unisex swagger, and they’re modest enough to sport as room service rolls in dinner. My crash-in-the-room meal is always a cheeseburger (they’re hard to mess up); the PJs are often a Liberty floral. If I have suitcase space, another set in satin doubles as evening wear in a very Murder on the Orient Express way.

For women, PJs boast a rollicking, feminist pedigree. Two-piece “sleeping suits” had been worn by British and American men since Victorian times, an idea riffing on traditional garments from India, Turkey, and Iran.

By the early 20th century, “beach pajamas” began popping up for women. Flappers slipped the soignée, often-silk ensembles on to cover up the newer, racier knit swimsuits that were gradually replacing bulky bathing dresses. In the 1920s and 1930s, women donned Asian-inspired satin pantsuits and polka-dot jumpsuits to stroll the sands from the French Riviera to Palm Beach.

In November 1924, Montana’s Anaconda Standard newspaper described the sleepwear-turned-daywear trend:

“Gone is the day when [pajamas were] confined to the sleeping apartments of the newer woman or to sleeping car of the Riviera express. Now it is the attire par excellence on the promenade.”

Some resort towns even banned beach pajamas, which were considered as daring as—gasp—bobbing your hair! But the trend spread. Eventually, society accepted females wearing trousers everywhere, not just on seaside holidays.

You can buy vintage beach jammies on Ebay and Etsy. I don’t own any (yet). But I’m thinking of trotting out the green silk Chinese pair I bought in San Francisco’s Chinatown during a weekend in New York City this fall. They’d look sharp at a Broadway matinee, maybe worn with a cool bootie?

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Here are a few PJs and a packable robe or two—for both women and men—fit for your next trip. I don’t advocate wearing the most casual of these styles on the airplane or outside of your VRBO—you don’t want to be mistaken for a teenager in flannel bottoms and a grimy T-shirt.

If you choose to go to the beach in a fancier pair, well, trends are cyclical, aren’t they?

I’ll pack this pair, by LA-based Dòmi, for my trip to India next year. They look both breathable and modest.

Men need travel PJs too, and this Japanese-style pair seems ideal for spa-hopping in Kyoto.

This cotton kimono from Kleed, block-printed in Jaipur, India, is lightweight enough to stash in your suitcase and sexier than any hotel robe. It’s also aces as a swimsuit cover-up.

If I was going to splash out on fancy vintage beach jammies, I’d go for happy-colored ones like these.

Filipino-American designer Jose Natori specializes in dazzling, often-spendy lingerie like these silk PJs, which are elegant enough to wear out for dinner in Manila or Manhattan.

Traveling to a new place—especially a far-flung one—often means coming home with a handcrafted souvenir: the flowered ikat bag I brought my sister from Turkey, the marble puma bust from Peru baring its fangs on my coffee table.

I usually hunt these treasures in souks or at local shops, and they’re sometimes intensely haggled for. That puma, with blazing blue stone eyes, required my terrible Spanish and many hand signals at the outdoor market in Pisac, Peru.  

The International Folk Art Market (IFAM), held every summer in Santa Fe, New Mexico, is like visiting dozens of destinations and bazillions of craftspeople in one long weekend. I’m just back from the market, where 167 artists (basket makers, silversmiths, clothing designers) from 51 countries created a cultural feast and a fair-trade shopping extravaganza.

Meeting the person who wove your Colombian basket or sewed sequins onto your Haitian voodoo flag infuses your purchase with meaning and context. It also generally means the artist is being fairly paid for their work. (The International Folk Market—everyone calls it IFAM—also leads group tours to meet makers in places such as Cuba, Mexico, and Ghana.)

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Going to IFAM, held annually at Santa Fe’s sprawling Railyard Park, might inspire you to plan a trip to meet these artists on their home turf. The rainbow-hued Indian woodblock shirts and dresses from Rajasthan’s Bindaas Unlimited made me start plotting a journey to India next year. And I can’t wait to see more black clay vases and sculptures when my husband and I head to Oaxaca this fall.

Here’s what I bought, and links to find the same (or similar items) online. Maybe I’ll meet you all at IFAM next July? Though I’m clearly going to need a bigger suitcase.

Jaguar leather bag, $330, Carla Fernandez, Mexico

Mexico City-based Fernandez delights in meshing Indigenous culture with high fashion, like this leather bag inspired by Tecuan masks. (You can also nab similar syles from my friend Paisley’s W Department store in Santa Fe.)

Embroidered pillow, $120, Laos/Thailand, Tikkiwallah

My friend Rachna (near right), lives in Chiang Mai, Thailand. She’s a writer and talented creative who launched Tikkiwallah “to connect artisans, market sellers, buyers, and travelers” with Thai and Lao textile traditions. It’s all done with a modern twist—hemp dresses that could be from The Row, dreamy duvet covers in the softest hues. I helped out in her booth at the market, and went home with a Lao cotton pillow embroidered with Thai “dok” or flower motifs.

Beaded glasses, $40, ZuluGal Retro, South Africa

Conceived of by Durban, South Africa artist Nozipho Zulu (pictured, above), ZuluGal Retro is a job-creation program which teaches marginalized populations to make beaded necklaces and delightfully embellished glasses frames. “Durban is very creative and freelwheeling, it’s a perfect place for something like this,” she told me.

Men’s block print shirt, $70, India, Bindaas Unlimited

Rajasthan, the northern Indian state, is known for its ancient pink forts, storied cities like Jaipur and Jodhpur, and block-printing scene. (When I go next year, I want to try printing stuff myself here.) I bought my husband C. a couple of these lightweight cotton shirts from Bindaas, which uses traditional carved blocks to produce whimsical prints like birds, coffee cups, or elephants.

Voodoo flag, $200, Haiti, Georges Valris

Haitian artists like Valris sew thousands of sequins onto ceremonial flags that are used in both religious voodoo ceremonies and as art. (No, they have nothing to do with making zombies, guys….) My French isn’t great, but a market interpreter helped me chat with Valris, who told me the snakes on this flag represented a pair of spirits who would unite the world. I’ll put it in a simple frame and hang it in my guest bathroom.

“Aso oke” throw, $75, Nigeria, Kamoru Kayode Agbelekale

Indigo, white, and pink-red woven fabric is popular in several West African countries, including Nigeria, where it’s called aso oke. I’d been wanting a swath of it to use as a throw or table runner (our living room and dining room use a good deal of pink and navy blue). Agbelekale doesn’t have a web presence, but you can purchase similar textiles at Urbanstax or by searching Etsy for “baule cloth” (the term for the fabric in nearby Cote d’Ivoire).

Coming next, my insider’s guide to Santa Fe shops, and a look at the mysteries of southwestern turquoise.

Wearing wide-legged gray pants, pastel sweaters, and old-school tan trench coats, the young women in Copenhagen whooshed by on their bicycles. Backdropped by the city’s regal 19th-century apartment blocks, they resembled a pack of well-dressed Nordic secret agents. A few carried bouquets in their bike baskets or huffed with the extra weight of a toddler strapped in behind, their purposeful pace slowed only by red lights or cobblestone bumps.

It was June, and my husband, C., and I had just landed in my favorite Scandinavian city. Contrary to that midsommar propaganda promising sunshine and flower crowns everywhere, it was overcast and cool. After wandering past the fish mongers and pastry sellers of the Torvehallerne food market, we sat outside on a stone bench eating flødeboller (Danish chocolate covered marshmallows). Stylish Copenhageners strolled past: a tall woman in a sweeping yellow floral dress and pale green suede cowboy boots, a good-looking man in a blue chore jacket and dark jeans. (Could he be Mads Mikkelsen?)

C. and I started walking back to our hotel near Tivoli Gardens. At the since-1843 amusement park, a multicolored swing ride lifted happily shrieking patrons skyward, a rainbow shock in the silver-gray sky. As I shivered in the breeze, everything I’d packed—and the magenta dress I had on—suddenly felt too brightly colored, too American, and most of all, not warm enough. Maybe I needed a new trench coat? And I really should’ve brought that pale yellow summer sweater!

I was suffering from Suitcase Lag, an affliction travelers sometimes come down with when they arrive in a new place and feel itchy, ill-dressed, or just wrong in whatever they’re wearing. It’s essentially a combination of packing regrets and an urge to slip into the guise—and clothes—of people around you.

Suitcase Lag might be rooted in a childlike urge to fit in. (“I need those shorts my friend Lily has!”) Or it could simply be tourists dressing their way towards a vacation mindset with an Aloha shirt in Hawaii or the pull-on, elephant print pants sold at every market in Southeast Asia.

Many times, I can ward off Suitcase Lag before I travel by studying the weather where I’m going, and pondering who I might want to be—or dress like—when I get there. If I’m flying to San Antonio (my childhood hometown), I wear cowboy boots and bring lots of turquoise jewelry, channeling my inner rodeo queen.

Other times, I worry I’ll accidentally make some sort of culturally inappropriate wardrobe fail, like tourists sporting Cleopatra costumes taking selfies outside Egyptian temples or anyone non-French wearing a beret in Paris.

I used the Copenhagen cold snap as an excuse to gently try on another self, to experiment with what a chilled-out, pared-back Nordic Jenn would dress like, think like, be like. Could buying and wearing Scandinavian clothes turn me into a chic Dane who lived in an apartment with views of the North Sea and owned an electric bicycle? Would I even be able to pedal in a long skirt and longer raincoat?

“There are many different Copenhagen styles,” said Rebecca Thandi Norman, the editor in chief of the Scandinavia Standard, an English-language online magazine and regional guide for newcomers and travelers. “Certainly bike-friendly style stands out, but there’s also minimalism and an extremely colorful, pattern-heavy style. It’s all usually perfectly cut and tailored, but also oversized.”

Most Nordic fashion designers also have a strong commitment to sustainability—it’s even baked into the requirements to show clothes at Copenhagen Fashion Week. “We have the idea that clothes should be high quality, long-lasting, and mostly made from natural materials,” said Norman.

And while lots of the clothes by Nordic designers (Sweden’s Rodebjer, Finland’s prints-mad Marimekko) look and feel quite luxurious (loads of silk-cotton blends, lots of metallic leather), few pieces flaunt ostentatious labels or initials—or insanely high price tags.

Using my own recon and Norman’s recs, I visited boutiques selling Scandinavian designers in Copenhagen’s Indre By neighborhood. No more pink dress—I wore a Danish disguise: white New Balance sneakers, a black peplum sweater, and a purple and black print skirt by Ganni, the powerhouse, feminine Copenhagen brand.

Crisscrossing bike lanes and stopping often for coffee, I popped into boutiques snuggled into 19th-century buildings and glassy modern cubes. At By Malene Birger, known for its pared-back bohemian vibe, I bought a crinkly taffeta maxi skirt (the same ethereal blue as the Copenhagen sky) and eyeballed ladylike tunics that would look apropos from Oslo to Ibiza.

I loved the unisex T-shirts and hoodies (in shades from Burned Yellow to Ultra Violet) amid the gallery-like white walls at Colorful Standard. There was more tailored-yet-not-uptight Danish style at the old-school department store Illum, where a vintage leaded glass roof shaded decidedly modern clothing by names like Aiayu (well-made, dead-simple button downs and tissue-weight cashmere) and Stine Goya (feminine dresses in candy bright florals).

In a melon-colored, half-timbered vintage building elves might’ve built, the newish shoe store Anonymous showed off crackled silver leather sandals and pointy-toed leopard print Mary Janes (both would’ve worked with my new skirt).

Around the corner from Anonymous was Munthe, a clothing brand whose surrealist botanical prints and eco-friendly fabrics I’d fallen in love with back in the U.S. (Thank you, Kaight boutique in Beacon, New York!). Though its flagship boutique was about the size of a studio apartment, it carried a large stock of ankle-grazing skirts (one in yellow with pink and black sequins!), floral blouses, and crisp pants. I spotted a gray top in one corner, cleverly made of sweatshirt fabric embroidered to resemble eyelet.

The shirt was like a cozy, chic read on a summer sweater, a feminine basic with a twist. It didn’t look like anything you’d find in America, and I promptly bought it.

The next day dawned, cool and spitting rain. I pulled the fancy gray sweatshirt over my magenta dress before we went on a cardamom bun breakfast run. The bakery clerk greeted me with a “Hej” before asking me a question in Danish.

I have no idea what she said, but I knew I’d successfully cured my Suitcase Lag.

All the brands mentioned in this post can be purchased online and shipped to most countries, including the U.S.