Growing up, my dad would take me everywhere. My first trip to Europe came as the result of a business trip on which he needed help translating from English in a Swiss-German accent to Spanish. We spent a few days in London, connected in Frankfurt, did business in Bern, visited an old partner of his in Turin, drove across the Alps just to stay a night in Paris, and hauled ass back to Zurich so we could make our return flight to the States. Getting off the plane, he lamented not having gotten me anything, and I remember clear as day thinking, this whole trip was the best time I’d ever had. I told him so, and he grinned.

Most of the places I’ve been lucky enough to travel to have been because of him having me tag along and wait for his meetings to end so we could explore new places, so we could experience new food and people. He didn’t always budget his money: we sometimes came home to soup for two weeks because we had spent everything else on the most recent trip, and it wasn’t uncommon to have to wait until the next payday to go back to a more usual living standard. But we would undoubtedly spend the whole time until then reminiscing over the things we got to do or the meals we had eaten or the landmarks we saw. My dad might not have been the best dad, but he did this kind of thing all the time. It’s a concept I quickly picked up.

As soon as I started college and earning my own livelihood, I always spent whatever money I had on nights with my friends, weekend trips out of town, longer breaks out of state… All under the idea that giving the people I cared about an experience, a memory to hold on to, was worth so much more than anything I could give them. Tennessee Williams said it best, but I really do truly feel in my heart that the purpose of my relationship with my loved ones has been to infect them with the tremendous excitement of living.

When I had an extra hundred bucks to buy same-day tickets and drive to Pittsburgh with my best friend, the band put on a life-changing concert for us. (No, literally. We went partially deaf for a couple days.)

When I saved up over a grand to treat, and I mean really treat, my best friend to her first trip to Manhattan, she called it the best date she had been on. (I hope so – it lasted a whole weekend.)

When I cashed out to make sure that the cast party I was hosting wouldn’t run out of drinks and bought music for the playlist I was making, the attendees said it was the best rager they’d ever gone to. (We actually still had enough for our Christmas party a few weeks later and the crowd sang along to every song I picked.)

The important thing here, you guys, isn’t so much that I spent money on my loved ones: I gave them something that’d last longer than a physical gift. It’s so much more than a video game they might’ve wanted or a sweater they’d had their eye on. Because let’s be real, yes there are some gifts that might last them their whole lives, but those are few and far in between. In fact, feel free to let me know in the comments, because the only thing I can think of is an engagement ring, and even then couldn’t you argue that the engagement ring serves more as a reminder of the day and the manner in which someone asked someone else to commit themselves to each other for the rest of their life?

Don’t get me wrong, I have very prized, costly belongings that have all been gifts from family and friends. Still, while they’re very valuable to me, out of the mini-fridge, guitar, TV, and two-seater couch for example – all of which hold incredible memories for me – the only one that I figure will seriously follow me in life would be the guitar my mom got me for my sixteenth birthday. Ironically the rest have been of greater use, but the fridge my favorite roommate gave me when I moved out is on the fritz; the TV my dad bought me senior year of high school was considered outdated three years ago; and the couch my best friend said was mine when I left college is so college that, as much as I would love to reupholster it and get the squeaking fixed and find a professional to clean it, is clearly a piece of furniture that wasn’t meant to last. But the reason I’m going to keep them all for as long as possible is because, when I see the fridge, I’m reminded of the absolutely obscene number of six packs it’s seen during gaming marathons. When I turn on the TV, I’m reminded of the number of people who’ve helped me move it from dorm to apartment to different rooms. When I sit on the couch, I’m reminded of the benevolence my friend showed me when I then had no bed to my name. I’m reminded of the way we’d all squish together watching the latest episode of our favorite show. I’m reminded of the tough conversations had, the things I learned, the nights I grew up.

I loathe speaking in absolutes but I really do believe it’s impossible to think of things without recalling affiliated occasions. So I would honestly much rather spend two hundred bucks on a meal if it meant that every time a conversation came up about food you’ve eaten, you could say, “Oh well I’ve eaten magret de canard and chapulines and tsukemen ramen and pata negra.” And while everyone else might go off on their own bougie tangents over the food they’ve come across, you’ve put them all on the back burner and are actively replaying everything else that happened with us when you ate those things. You’re remembering how you ran to the venue because you lingered a little too long in small-world conversation over glasses of wine. You’re remembering the tears you shed watching people propose at the rally during your first Pride weekend. You’re remembering almost eating the floor as you tripped while descending the arena stairs at your first hockey game. You’re remembering the sheer amazement as you stood stunned, gazing out onto the city for the first time, from 87 floors up.

So I think that’s what they meant when they said money can’t buy you happiness. You could have all the possessions you want, but they get lost, they get damaged, they become archaic and consequently impractical. You could have all the possessions you want, but they won’t keep you happy. What keeps you happy, what keeps reminding you of the wonderment in life, are the memories made. The experiences had. Call it hedonistic, but the point in life is to live everything, live the whole spectrum. Because even the bad trips, the bad experiences, make you grateful for the good. Hell, a lot of the time, they eventually turn out to be a good story anyways. And there’s something so gratifying about giving people something you know they’ll think back fondly on, even when you’re 3000 miles away, even when it’s been decades, even when life gets in the way and the connection fades. The memory lasts forever.