A few years ago in Gyumri, Armenia, a guide led me past the souvenir stalls and into an artist's studio called Varem Marem.
For the next 45 minutes, I made a miniature traditional Armenian door from plaster using a mold, then painted it to turn it into a fridge magnet.
I'm not crafty, and it was more abstract than intended, but I was hooked before the paint had dried. The experience cost about $10, and the magnet is still on my fridge.
After most of my trips to 110 countries , I came home with shot glasses and keychains. Since Gyumri, I look for a small class on every trip, where I can learn from locals and make something I'll take with me.
Fortunately, I've found all sorts of opportunities to learn and make things abroad, from culinary arts to hands-on crafts.
One of my favorites was a cooking class I took with my family in Sri Lanka. My teenage sons were reluctant to give up part of their vacation to a class, but after two and a half hours of grinding spices by hand and frying our way through more curries than we could finish, they were won over.
A few weeks later, one of my sons pulled out the recipes we'd brought home from the class and cooked the whole meal for us, better than I'd managed on the day. No cheap souvenir has ever made me dinner.
The most ambitious thing I've made during my travels is a pair of sneakers, at a shoe school outside Fort Collins, Colorado. I spent half a day making them by hand from recycled materials.
The soles were pressed from old tennis balls, and the canvas was orange and blue because those were the colors I happened to be wearing that morning. Fashion design isn't my strong suit.
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It was my first time at a sewing machine, and I kept veering off the seam, though that didn't stop me from producing the world's first pair of Air Jurbergs.
By mid-afternoon, I was holding two shoes that somehow looked like actual shoes. I wear them more than any shoes I've bought.
Another highlight from my travels was a hat-making class I took in Charleston. At one point, as I watched flames leap off the cowboy hat I was making, I was sure I'd wrecked it.
Laura, who runs the hat bar at Southern Ruetz, told me not to worry: The flames only singe the loose fibers off the felt. She recently made a hat for Lainey Wilson, my favorite country singer , so I trusted her with mine.
For the hatband, we cut up an old seersucker shirt, a nod to the seersucker suit I wore at my wedding, and wound it around the brim.
As we finished, Laura's friends started dropping by. Within minutes, we were drinking wine and swapping stories, and they were telling me where to eat, which bars to visit, and where to buy sweetgrass baskets from Gullah artisans.
I'd booked a class to make a hat. I left with a hat, some new friends, and a better plan for the rest of my trip. Later, I even got to wear the hat I'd made to a Lainey Wilson concert in my hometown of Melbourne (and we got a selfie together).
Sure, I still book tours and see the big sights — but now I also look for a class, a few hours where a local teaches me to make something I'll use. I almost always find one.
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