Me, I got no high horse. I eat my broccoli, mostly because I have to. I eat lima beans. I actually like those. But I also eat Costco gourmet chocolate chunk cookies. On rare occasions, nothing but KFC will do. And at the airport, I sustain myself with both trail mix (health food) and Starburst.

And I happen to know that other people are also susceptible to foods they shouldn’t love, but do. So today’s three-fer is about foods we eat on the road that are so bad, but so good.

Joining us is Fort Worth-based food critic, cookbook author, and travel writer June Naylor. June not only shares her food passion through her writing (and her writing can make a gal mighty hungry), she and a partner also run Texas Toast Tours, culinary tours of our home state—a state, I might add, that specializes in wonderful, terrible food. Chicken fried steak. I rest my case.

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Vegetarians, avert your eyes. Everyone else, wipe that drool from your chin. Mueller's isn't just good. It's legendary. Photo by June Naylor.

Even after a long day of fat-packed Central Texas barbecue touring, I managed to make room in my gut for one more stop.

My 4 p.m. arrival at Louie Mueller Barbecue, the vaunted meat palace in the burg of Taylor, found the crowds gone. I had the legendary joint nearly to myself, the better for focusing on my piece of butcher paper laden with handmade jalapeno sausage and tender pork ribs, smoked over post oak and crusty at the edges.

A refreshing breeze swept through the screened-in porch as I sipped a pint jar of Shiner Bock and chatted with Wayne Mueller, Louie’s grandson, about the joys of eating barbecue. Every Saturday afternoon should taste this good.–-June

Boiled peanuts aren’t bad for you. It’s a quantity thing here. I, quite simply, cannot stop with just a handful. I

Jenna ate this man's boiled peanuts. She doesn't know what the woman on the gurney consumed. Photo by Jenna Schnuer.

eat and eat and eat until my mouth is so dried out from salt that I start speaking funny. Though I once paired them with port–surprisingly delicious–I prefer a calorific icy cold Coke with my peanuts. And I’ll buy them from just about anyone anywhere. Really, I’ve eaten boiled peanuts out of pots that looked like they hadn’t been cleaned in…generations. Those always taste best. It’s like a hot dog from an NYC street vendor–the dirtier the hands, the better the hot dog. (I know: gross.)–Jenna

I'm sure if I eat enough McGriddles I'll eventually look just like this.

Jenna and June are foodies whereas I’m one of those food-is-fuel people. So it figures that even my bad-food indulgence is going to be badder (and not in a good way) than theirs.

Ladies and gentlemen: The McGriddle.

I know, I know. McDonald’s is the evil empire and it nearly killed Morgan Spurlock. But sad I am those times I start a road trip too late in the morning to kick it off with bacon, egg, and cheese between two pancake-like disks. Maybe it sounds terrible, and I’m not among those who, under normal circumstances, allows my pancake syrup to touch anything else on my breakfast plate. But for some reason the McGriddle makes it all work.

I’m so ashamed.—Sophia

This week’s guest is my pal Jeff Middleton, a member of your new favorite country rock band, The Dirt Drifters. (And, no, I’m not just saying that cause Jeff’s my friend–the band is damned good.) They’re currently recording their debut album for Warner Bros. When they’re not in the studio, The Dirt Drifters tour the U.S. (and sleep in Wal-Mart parking lots) in a shiny new RV–see the first photo below for the why of that. Follow their on-the-road adventures on the Twitter. Oh, buy one of their t-shirts now. I’m sure they’ll cost a helluva lot more once the boys are playing big stadium shows. (Knock wood and all.)

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He was born to run but, clearly, his glory days were behind him. R.I.P. Randy Taylor (the Dirt Drifters' first RV).

I am in a touring band so I take a road trip almost every weekend. Being from Jersey, Springsteen is the only choice for a one song-repeat nightmare. So….

Born to Run? The obvious choice. An admirable one. Not mine.

Thunder Road? Points for length and “casing the promised land.” Hard to say no.

Badlands? Raucous and rowdy passes the miles and time. Oh, so close.

My road trip song? No Surrender. Busting out of class, getting away from those fools, chasing dreams, DOUBLE sing along–both whoas AND lay lays–c’mon, please!

Lower your window. Crank your radio. Raise your fist. No retreat baby.–Jeff

"...when I walk along some railroad tracks and find/that you’re moving on the backroads by the rivers of my memory/and for hours you're just gentle on my mind." Photo by Sophia Dembling

Glen Campbell’s version of John Hartford’s  Gentle on My Mind. No contest. I love everything about it. I love the rolling guitar riff that sounds like wheels spinning on a highway or railroad track. I love the idea of a memory soothing a restless mind. I love the imagery (“…through cupped hands round the tin can…” and “..moving on the backroads by the rivers of my memory…”) I wouldn’t mind being that easygoing presence in the back of someone’s mind, but I’d rather be the one playing and singing the song by a campfire. That’s my alter-ego. (The bad-girl version: Dwight Yoakam’s I’ll Be Gone.)

(Coincidentally, yesterday was Glen Campbell’s 74th birthday. Born in Delight, Arkansas, population 311. I find that…delightful.)–Sophia

Found it on Flickr. Just really liked it. Courtesy of SliceofNYC via a Creative Commons license.

I like the way so many jazz standards can, when necessary, serve as background music but, when you need them, when you want to sing or move to something or focus on anything but the thoughts that keep spinning through, they’re right there for you. So, Billie Holiday’s version of Stars Fell on Alabama. Her voice anchors me, makes me feel like things are possible. Though, yeah, she makes me real sad, too. Of course, I’m imagining that this road trip is during the late summer, that I’m driving through heat and the smell of honeysuckle and dusk is on the way and I’m just going to drive straight through the night.–Jenna

Joining us is an underground hero and a Dallas celebrity, Bucks Burnett—record dealer; former editor of the Mr. Ed Fan Club newsletter; one-time manager of the late Tiny Tim. (My family owned God Bless Tiny Tim back in the day, and we listened to it. I can still sing some of the songs.)

You might have read about Bucks in this article in the Wall Street Journal; he wants to open a museum of eight track tapes because, as he says in the article, “There are only two choices. A world with an eight-track museum and a world without an eight-track museum. I choose with.” I was at the opening of the three-day show the WSJ wrote about here and it was, indeed packed with everyone in town who appreciates irony, kitsch, and Bucks.

If you happen be in Dallas, say hey to Bucks at his record store inside the very excellent thrift shop Dolly Python.

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Junk store gold: The pink "Houses of the Holy" eight track, now with Jimmy Page autograph. Beautiful.

Nothing makes me stop quicker than a really junky looking junk store. Preferably a decaying shack with a poorly made sign. I mainly like to buy eight-track tapes and old photos of people I don’t know. Almost 20 years ago, I was going insane looking for a pink cartridge version of Led Zeppelin’s Houses Of The Holy. Before eBay, you could only find eight tracks at garage sales, thrift stores, etc. One day in Arkansas, middle of nowhere, crummy little house…I did a U-turn, with that eight track in my head. The owner, an 80-year-old black farmer, handed me a box of about ten eight tracks, and there it was, the pink Zep, for $1. I later got it signed by Jimmy Page. Dreams really can come true.–Bucks

Jenna would never think to abandon a cup of coffee like this. It's just cruel. Photo by srslyguys via Flickr (Creative Commons license).

An empty cup holder is a sad cup holder. A cup holder that’s got my ninth cup of coffee of the road trip day in its grips is a very happy cup holder. And that makes me a happy Jenna. From truck stops that serve up coffee that just barely deserves to be called coffee to tiny roadside espresso stands that turn out lattes with elegant designs in the foam, I’ve rarely passed a coffee-serving joint that I didn’t, at least, consider pulling into. Though, yes, I’m clearly a caffeine addict, the best part of my coffee stops are the brief chats I have with–and the info I collect from–the clerk or barista of the moment.–Jenna

Of course I had to brake for this. Who wouldn't? Photo by Sophia Dembling.

I brake for oddball museums (the Texas Prison Museum, the Toy & Action Figure Museum) but even so, it’s rare to luck into something like Jim’s Metal Art Museum,  in itty-bitty Gage, Oklahoma. Now, I sometimes have trouble stopping once I get going, but fortunately, I had Bird Chick in my passenger seat when we passed this amazing wheelasaurus. We both slammed our foot on our brakes (mine worked better than hers) and I couldn’t not pull over. Behind this guy, a big yard was crammed with folk art sculptures (and a lot of junk), though sadly, it was fenced off and locked up. Still we pressed our faces to the fence and marveled. We love you, Jim.–Sophia

Joining us for this homage to debauchery is travel writer Shannon Hurst Lane. She also answers to CajunMama, her name over at  TravelingMamas.com, the blog she created to give travel writing moms a place to share their stories. While Shannon sins all over the world, her home base for bad behavior is Zachary, Louisiana.

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The next morning, the kind people at the W New Orleans sent this goodie tray Shannon's way to help alleviate her post-sin pain.

I was covering Tales of the Cocktail, one of the Crescent City’s most spirited events. It lasts all week and highlights various libations and their histories, mixologists from all over the world, and of course, tastings.

Check out Nashville’s nightclubs. You never know what magnificence you might stumble upon. Photo by ckramer via Flickr (Creative Commons).

My husband and I were in Nashville with friends one weekend. Saturday night, we saw that a bunch of Nashville notables—we recognized several names—was playing together at a downtown bar called the Ace of Clubs (RIP). That sounded promising so we plunked down the cover charge ($10? $15? No more than that) and—oh my. We had stumbled into a show with some of the city’s finest, including singer/songwriters Jim Lauderdale and Kim Richey, singer Mandy Barnett, session sweetheart guitarist Kenny Vaughan, Robert Reynolds and John Barlow Jarvis from The Mavericks (one of my all-time favorite bands) and others. They all had a blast and so did we. It was dazzling. Unforgettable. Perfect. Loooove Nashville. –Sophia

This was shortly after I yelled at the drunk lady. Photo by Jenna Schnuer.

Jersey! Was feeling a drop low about leaving daily life in NYC behind. Called up the tour page of the Felice Brothers, my current favorite band, to see where all they were headed–and my town was on the list. Shocked the hell out of me. I didn’t even know there was a place to see shows in Teaneck. So, a 300-person venue and my favorite band and my closest friend and just two beers (driving now and all) and pow…damned good night. I even told off a nasty drunk chick who kept slamming into everybody with her pathetic dance maneuvers. And you know what? Seeing her slink away–as people around me clapped–was a damned lot of fun.–Jenna

So for this week’s Three-fer, we decided to combine love of fiction with love of travel and, using one of our own travel photos as a prompt, write the opening words of our next unwritten novels. (Maybe. Or maybe they’ll get written.)

We are joined by novelist, freelance writer, and “tequila smoothie enthusiast” Karen Harrington, who has already accomplished the dream. You can read the opening pages of Karen’s compelling set-in-Texas psychological suspense novel, Janeology on her website. I’m also a fan of Karen’s blog, Scobberlotch, where she writes about all sorts of things, most notably about writing.

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Taken on an Oklahoma back road somewhere between Broken Bow, OK and Texas. For the record, Karen really wishes her hubby had let her go buy turnips.

The view from her car is a sequence of still life images. Flat, sun-soaked land, dotted with hay bales. An ancient tractor parked inside the grey remains of a barn. The solitary horse standing in the pinpoint center of a white-fenced field. Curiosity tugs at her. Who lives out here? What do they do? Sit on porch swings and drink sweet tea, then fall asleep next to their lifelong love? Or is this a myth of country songs?

She pulls her car to a stop. What had she just seen? A sign, leaned against a lamppost, offering turnips for sale. If she didn’t meet the person who sold turnips, she’d wonder about it for the rest of her life.–Karen

(P.S. Thoughts about where this novel might go: It’s either a The Bridges of Madison County love story where the woman finds unexpected love or a Stephen King-like cautionary tale about the risks of following curiosity.)

Come winter, Coney Island's wonder and thrills are more of an internal thing. Photo by Jenna Schnuer.

The Nathan’s hot dog tasted better once summer had shoved off. Summer was an easy excuse to visit Coney Island. To go in February, you had to really love it. You had to be OK with stinging wind off the water and fewer buffers between yourself and some of the dodgy types who hung around year-round. She really loved it—but only mid-winter. There was no forced happy about the boardwalk in winter. The frantic flashing of the lights and neon stopped. Come winter, Coney Island turned into NYC’s best place to be by yourself. It was a Hope Davis indie flick waiting to begin.–Jenna

Every road tells a story, too. Photo by Sophia Dembling.

The dark clouds threatened some sort of hell but were holding back. Sudden shafts of sunlight suggested that the lowering sky was just show and bravado.

Still, it would be nice to know where she was. Her map was of no help, and though she thought she vaguely recognized the intersection, so many years had passed since she left Oklahoma for Los Angeles, she couldn’t be sure if she recognized the actual road or just what it represented.

Her family was long gone, and if childhood friends or classmates still lived in the area, she wouldn’t know what to say to them. But she was here because there was something she still didn’t understand. And she had to know.–Sophia

Joining us at the Three-fer party table this week: writer Gwen Moran. A great conversationalist and storyteller and all-around excellent person to hang out with, she’s at the top of my guest list for any and all shindigs. (And she’s a Jersey girl and Jersey girls know how to party.) A business writer and award-winning humorist, Gwen lives and works at the Jersey Shore (the place, not the reality television show). And, believe you me, those Jersey shore girls know from a party. (Want to hang out with her today? That’s what the Twitter is for: @gwenmoran.)

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There's a sign toward the back that says "BOOK YOUR PARTY NOW." It's a very good idea. Photo by Gwen Moran.

At the Silverball Pinball Museum on Asbury Park’s storied boardwalk, the tink-tink-tink of a silver orb racking up points on one machine competes for attention with the flashing colored lights of another. Standing at the foot of Evel Knievel, KISS, or Mata Hari, it’s hard to tell whether we’re really there or whether we’ve slipped into childhood’s boardwalk arcade memories. After several rounds of heated competition, perhaps a machine’s high score beaten and bragging rights earned, we walk next door to dine at the tropic-themed Langosta Lounge for a feast of fresh seafood or jerk chicken, washed down with cold, fruity drinks. Then, a walk on the boards. But which way? To the right, where Candyteria’s confections await? Or the left, where the glass artisans at Hot Sand create beauty? Or across the long, white beach?–Gwen

This is Sophia's idea of a good-time party house.

I don’t need a big, rowdy party. Some close friends in beautiful surroundings is my kind of bash. Meet me at the Montana Island Lodge. It’s been nearly a decade since I visited the place (called the Center at Salmon Lake back then) but it’s one of those frequent sigh…take me back memories. It’s marketed for small group meetings, executive retreats, weddings, that sort of thing but it will certainly do for my party. We’ll have the whole place: eleven guest rooms, game room with pool table, steam room, hot tub, decks with oh-my-gawd gorgeous views, meals are included, and you can BYOB. And, of course, it’s Montana, which brings a little something extra to any party. OK, a lot.–Sophia

It doesn't look like much now but... Photo by teofilo via Flickr (Creative Commons).

It’s been in my head for a long time. I want to transform a VFW Hall or an Elks Lodge or some other group’s kind of bare bones space into a huge all-American BBQ extravaganza. I’m talking BBQ from as many shacks and stands from across this great land as we can muster. Wet rubs! Dry rubs! And cole slaw with vinegar and cole slaw with mayo. We might need the parking lot out back, too. And perhaps the one next to it. We’ll doll the place up with streamers and eat off paper plates and drink the local beer. Root beer, too. Nothing diet. And it won’t be a competition. Competitions are fun but this one will be pure pleasure. No trash talking allowed.–Jenna

For today’s Three-fer, we bring you always hilarious, excellently outrageous Joe Rhodes, a frequent contributor to TV Guide, Reader’s Digest and The New York Times. Joe has decided to live in a decked-out Mercedes van for the next few years, wandering the backroads of America “like Charles Kuralt in a bad mood.” He’s coming to your town, so protect yourself by checking on his whereabouts at Traipsathon.com. And for more Joe than you can control, follow his Twitter feed: @earlkabong.

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Joe Rhodes is coming soon to your town. You've been warned.

Before strapping in for a road trip (by which I mean putting on my Astronaut Diaper), I pack salves and unquents, jugs of water and Subway coupons I may or may not have stolen from the neighbor’s mailbox. I get my traditional Road Trip Buzz Cut, so I can stumble out of bed and into my vehicle without it being obvious that I haven’t washed or combed my hair. (Seriously.) I always have at least one new Road Trip Album (last trip: Radiohead’s Kid A), and find (often via Yelp) at least one new restaurant/music venue on my route. (Last trip: Flagstaff’s spectacular Tinderbox Kitchen). I double-check GPS, bluetooth speakerphone, IPod cassette/speaker connector, and hit the highway. Also, whenever I cross a state line, I wet myself a little. Those Astronaut Diapers are handy.–Joe

The best road trip album EVER. That's all.

I’ve heard that other road trippers like to compile a new playlist for every trip. That sounds nice but I never make time for it. Instead I rely on two playlists, or, I should say, need! to listen to two playlists over and over when I drive from here to there: Lucinda Williams’ Car Wheels on a Gravel Road and Yummy, a mix I created about a decade back. Car Wheels is, simply, the best travel album ever recorded. It works on highways, back roads, at rest stops… And Yummy, which remains, to me, as fresh as the day I created it, has a song for every mood, from Israel Kamakawiwo’ole’s “Over the Rainbow” to Modern English’s “I Melt With You.”–Jenna

"A treat in itself." Note the "food groups" icon. Grapes, apples, nuts, gummy bears.

I’m not a foodie. (I like Peeps, fergawdsake. Also those orange circus peanut thingies.) So it makes peculiar sense that my road rituals involve food. And by food, I mean “food.” My road trip food groups are gummy bears, beef jerky, and trail mix. For variety, sometimes my gummy bears are worms, sometimes my beef jerky is peppered, and sometimes my trail mix contains M&M-ish things. I have never returned a rental car without gummys fused to the upholstery and trail mix wedged in the seats. And, by the way, I now know exactly what happens if you leave a bag of gummy bears in the glove compartment on a trip through Death Valley. It resembles this, only swirlier.–Sophia

Today’s Three-fer Friday guest writer is Marilyn Terrell, chief researcher for National Geographic Traveler, copy editor for Intelligent Travel, and more often-than-not writer of NG Kids‘ “Weird But True” column. If you’ve ever spent any time on Twitter, you’re probably encountered at least a tweet or two from Marilyn. She’s well known for her generosity in passing along links and info and all sorts of excellent tidbits. And she’s fun to tweet banter with as well. (Yes, that’s right: tweet banter.)

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A wonderful place to have loved--but not to have lost. Photo by padraics_travels via flickr (Creative Commons license).

I grew up in Lower Manhattan, but my mom often took us kids uptown to West 53rd Street to the glamorous Donnell Library across from the Museum of Modern Art.

The Donnell held the premier collection of children’s books in the city. My brothers and I would revolve through the glass doors (more times than was necessary), enter the bright, two-story lobby, then bound up the stairs to the Children’s Room, where you could borrow records (Burl Ives, Ella Jenkins), as well as books. Downstairs was a comfy auditorium where they’d screen free movies from their huge film collection.

Alas, the library was closed in 2008 to make way for an 11-story luxury hotel that never materialized.–Marilyn

No dialog necessary.

Seeing a real Oscar is just one of the thrills at the Margaret Herrick Library at the Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences in Los Angeles. You can’t check out materials here, but you can climb the Kirk Douglas Grand Staircase to the Cecil B. DeMille Reading Room and explore the world’s premier collection of cinematic…well, everything. Scripts, photos, posters, set designs, costume designs, letters…On my visit, out of curiosity, I flipped through the script for Halloween. It has about 12 lines of dialog amidst such lurid imagery as: “Bob hangs there, impaled on the wall, eyes still open in horror, dead.” Now, that’s entertainment.–Sophia

Lancelot awaits your visit.

I didn’t expect to come face-to-face with Sir Lancelot in Birmingham, Alabama. Or Isis or Pocahontas. But, there they were, standing or, in Lancelot’s case, riding tall on the walls of the Linn-Henley Research Library, one of two buildings that make up Birmingham Public Library’s Central Library. The work of artist Ezra Winter, the murals were commissioned by the library’s board in the 1920s. They’re so very beautiful. I remember them sort of shimmering, glowing. They were gold and light. But I, stupidly, didn’t give them enough time on my one-day Birmingham tour. I was determined to get to at least one meat-and-three and the Birmingham Civil Rights Institute before taking off in the a.m. for the Highway 127 Sale. I want to go back, sit, and spend hours reading with Lancelot watching over me.–Jenna

Not only that, but because food has no calories when you travel (you didn’t know that?), even if we are oatmeal people at home, we are pancake or migas or chocolate chip waffle people on the road.

And so today, the topic is YUM! BREAKFAST! Our guest writer is Helen Husher, who was my horseback riding teacher at Camp Sunningdale in Naples, Maine a few decades ago. We have reunited through the miracle of Facebook. These days, Helen lives in Montpelier, Vermont where she writes books about Vermont culture and destinations. She also has published a memoir, Conversations With A Prince: A Year Of Riding At East Hill Farm and blogs at sixty-four strings, which is the number of strings on the hammered dulcimer she plays. A very interesting person, our Helen.

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The Skinny Pancake, part of the growing local foods movement, started as a homemade pushcart.

The Skinny Pancake in Montpelier (and Burlington), Vermont started as a pushcart made from a discarded boat trailer and leftover flooring. These days you can sit down to eat anything you can stuff inside a crepe, but it’s the breakfasts that are to die for. The smoked-salmon “Atlantic Monster” with local eggs and spinach-artichoke cream cheese, and frumple cakes, a house specialty that starts as a plain crepe until it gets, well, frumpled, then topped with sugar and cinnamon. If you must eat an Important Meal, frumpling turns duty into pleasure.

Best of all is the wall of windows overlooking a town where everybody walks everywhere, often in unusual clothes–it’s a cold climate so we’re big on layers, monstrous boots, earflaps, and ten-foot scarves. It’s impossible to be bored.–Helen

Yes, that is a smile you see on their potbellied stove. It likes breakfast, too.

I remember feeling slightly embarrassed while eating at Michael’s Kitchen in Taos, New Mexico. A devout breakfast eater, I think I horrified the friend I was with by the hectic pace with which I both spoke about and devoured the delicious mess of tortillas and eggs and cheese and beans and diced green chile in front of me. There’s a chance I drank more coffee than most people deem natural, too. But Michael’s felt totally comfy. I just really liked being in there. Oh, be prepared to wait when you go. Buy some chile cheese bread from their bakery to tide yourself over.–Jenna

Not much to look at, but that's OK. It's all about the eatin'.

Breakfast is absolutely my favorite meal of the day—especially restaurant breakfasts, that come with such a variety of divinely unhealthy things: hash browns, buttery grits, pancakes, bacon, greasy toast and strawberry jam in little tubs and, at the Omelet House in Las Vegas, warm, sweet, tender pumpkin nut or banana nut bread. Oh, mama. You’ll hardly think about your huge, fluffy omelet (mmm, but I’ll have the Popeye, stuffed with spinach, mushrooms and jack) once you start snarfing that stuff, smeared with butter. It’s a wonder the off-duty showgirls at the next table manage to keep their figures with a place like this around. This no-glitz spot way off the Strip haunts my morning dreams.–Sophia

We like to shop for jewelry when we travel. Jewelry souvenirs make it easy to take your travels with you throughout your work-a-day week–and, if you don’t have room in your suitcase on the way home, you can just wear the purchase. But some jewelry glisters brightest because we didn’t buy it. And the memory of that bauble can burn a girl’s brain in a bad way for a long time. So, this week, some pieces we bought, others we were gifted, some we left behind.

Joining us for the glistery good times is Cathleen McCarthy, a writer who lives at the intersection of travel and jewelry. Based in Philadelphia, Cathleen writes for magazines including Town & Country, Art & Antiques, and US Airways, as well as her website, The Jewelry Loupe, and The City Traveler, which she runs with two other swell writers.

Bernd Munsteiner's son, Tom, carries on the cool pendant ($18,500) tradition. Photo courtesy of the Aaron Faber Gallery.

I obsess over jewelry wherever I am–craft shows, movie theatres–but what I covet is usually hand-fabricated and out of my reach. I’ve passed up many treasures but if I could time-travel with a pocketful of cash, I’d head for the Tucson Gem Show, c. 1998, where I fell in love with the elliptical-shaped pendants carved by Bernd Munsteiner: all stone and about 1.5″ long. I almost splurged on the rutilated quartz. Five years later, I spotted three more at the Aaron Faber Gallery in Manhattan and tried on the fiery Mexican opal (oh! painfully beautiful), now $2,000. Faber warned me Munsteiner wasn’t making them any more, but (drat!) I was saving for a house. Alas, he was right.–Cathleen

Sophia's getting her friend’s money’s worth out of this little souvenir.

A friend got me this shark’s tooth necklace in Corpus Christi, as thanks for driving her to the airport. I appreciated the gesture but didn’t think I’d wear it. I pictured it hanging on a rack in a souvenir store, next to key chains and tawdry postcards.

But when I divorced the necklace from that image, it became one of my favorite pieces of everyday casual jewelry. It’s a staple when I travel, since I don’t like to travel with anything expensive, and it perfectly suits my style, which is a little bit hippie, a little bit tough chick. It’s all about context, isn’t it? I look at souvenir shops differently now.—Sophia

Poor things aren't much to look at anymore. They could use a little reshaping.

OK, my choice is actually gold. I think. They’ve never turned my ears funny colors or made my lobes hurt so, yeah, I’m fairly certain they’re gold. They were my first purchase at a Nashville store that I now count as one of my favorites anywhere in the U.S. Whoever does the buying for Fire Finch just loads the place up with all sorts of crazy pretty goodness. It’s totally girly but, though I hate this word, I will use it, it’s got a bit of an edge. So these super simple earrings were there and they were on a super sale. When I put them on, cue the music, I just felt pretty–and ever so much slightly sassier than I did one second before. For that, I would have paid full price.–Jenna