A Survivor’s Guide to VSD—Vacation Shopping Disease

A few Julys ago, I was on the Greek island of Hydra having the time of my life: riding boats, eating grilled octopus, sipping negronis, jumping off rocks into the Aegean Sea. While wandering that perfect island, I popped into one of the many shops that sell block-print caftans. I walked in wearing one of my usual outfits—a crisp white button-up shirt and black shorts from The Row—but it was hot, I was in and out of the sea all day, and not one building had air conditioning. I walked out with three oversized caftans in pink, coral, and turquoise.

That was the beginning of a two-week long delusion.

On Hydra, I decided that I had always deep-down been a caftan-wearing woman, the kind of lady who might date a guy like Leonard Cohen—a former Hydra resident—and make her own yogurt. A person who would learn to drive a motorcycle and lose track of time dancing, not a tightly-wound New York City resident who likes to nap and hates cooking. The caftans made sense for Vacation Me, so I bought three more before I left, raising my grand total to six Greek caftans.

When I eventually returned to Manhattan, I tried to wear them casually, doing errands, walking my dog, and picking up food in wildly-patterned, semi-sheer fabric. I looked like I was wearing a nightgown in public.

I suffer from VSD: Vacation Shopping Disease. I convince myself that any local look is exactly what I’ve always been meant to wear. I have purchased multiple pairs of Lucchese boots in Santa Fe, turquoise earrings in Aspen, and silver necklaces in Taos—and that’s just the mountain time zone. There were two Hermès berets in Paris, Paul Smith striped scarves in London, an antique kimono in Kyoto, and pink satin high heels in Los Angeles, as if I was the next Paris Hilton. They were all purchased out of a sense of optimism and expansiveness, so I tried to wear them when I returned home. Inevitably, they sat in closet purgatory. Best-case scenario, they were sold in a closet sale.

I am not alone in battling VSD. Take the quintessential “finding herself” movie of the 2010s: Eat, Pray, Love, based on Elizabeth Gilbert’s memoir. Post-divorce, Julia Roberts’ character travels the world and, in the process, finds that she wears wide-brimmed hats in Italy, a sari in India, and a Selendang in Bali.

In real life, almost every woman passing through Saint Tropez has at least considered buying K. Jacques sandals. And have you seen American men on vacation in Italy? They all end up buying white linen pants, as if a man who normally vapes and wears jorts is one outfit away from becoming George Clooney with a house on Lake Como. “They always manage to get them too short or too tight,” says Reid McVey, a part-time sales associate at the cult boutique Desert Vintage, in the Lower East Side.

There is a difference between shopping for a vacation and suffering from VSD. I bought ugly yet practical hiking boots for the Sierras, but that was a climate, vibe, and activity-specific purchase. It veers into VSD territory when you land in a foreign place and spend money on something highly specific—like beaded sandals in Capri or a huge cowboy hat in Telluride—that you never considered buying at home and don’t serve some fundamentally practical purpose for your trip.

I’m trying to reverse my VSD. Recently, I went on a work trip to Venice, Italy. It was my first time in the city, and I knew that between those velvet slippers with tire soles and Murano glass, I could really get myself into trouble. I allowed myself to browse before I left, stalking the Instagram accounts of Piedàterre and glassblowers. I told myself I could buy one functional piece of glass–no giant glass necklaces–and a single pair of house slippers. Instead of sucking the joy out of my trip, I thought it would make my shopping trips hyper-focused.

Only, I ended up being too pragmatic. The Murano glasses were too bulbous and too brightly colored to feel right amongst the neutrals in my kitchen. The velvet slippers made me look like I was in a costume drama. I bought nothing.

Am I reformed? Maybe. However, I did pop into Fortuny to try on a Delphos gown, made of hand-pleated black silk. I didn’t buy one. But I’ll be in Paris, where there is a Fortuny store, in just two weeks…