I have GOT to stop buying souvenirs. Those who know me will know I'm not exactly a model of self-restraint, lest you think I am lying, hear this: I just devoured a cannoli the size of my head, and still, I want more! Back to the souvenirs, seriously, if I don't stop buying them I will soon be buried in novelty beer openers, key rings, hand-painted bottles of bad decision juice and other tchotchkes (tchotchke: a small piece of worthless crap, a decorative knick knack with little or no purpose, LOVE this word). Well, I guess that doesn't sound THAT bad, I mean, "crushed by tchotchkes" is way up there with “asphyxiation by cake” and “cuddled to death by pandas” on my list of preferred ways to die. But still, whilst that would be a lovely way to die, I'm going to chose LIFE and (try) stop with the tchotchkes. Today, I visited a beautiful Italian village in the mountains called Apricale and bought the BEST tchotchke for my Toni Goedhals, more on Apricale later and clues as to what said tchotchke IS...
