Sunday, 15. July 2007
I AM not one of those people who has a constantly magical time when I travel. If I am outside the country and alone, whether it is Mexico City, Paris or Athens, I will trudge through museums and churches and go to a dumb discothèque, but spend most of my time trying to find toothpaste, and also staring at people, storefronts and logos that make no sense. Then I go back to my hotel, alone, and watch a dubbed cop film starring Billy Zane.
Kiosk, the unassuming curiosities store in SoHo, is never a bad trip. The store is semihidden, upstairs from Spring Street, past the busy back doors of a restaurant kitchen. Entering through a doorway with muslin curtains, you discover a loft space divided in half by shelves that display small, enticingly lighted objects freshly plucked from the tabacs, farmacias and alimentaris of somewhere else — all the odd things you might stare at as a displaced tourist.
The store presents interesting objects from a different country every four to five months, gathered by the owner, Alisa Grifo, and her husband, Marco ter Haar Romeny, on their travels. Germany is the featured country this summer, and you can find everyday items that don’t seem so everyday here, like a tube of mustard or an egg pricker, which creates a tiny hole in the egg so it doesn’t crack as it boils.
"I guess if you need to boil the perfect egg to serve the perfect breakfast in the land of perfection then you need this," reads a typed blurb next to it.
Hilarious, energetic descriptions written by Ms. Grifo accompany each object. "Oh man my head hurts, but this graphic design takes the pain away. Buy it for the box, the pills are a gift," she writes about a set of 32 headache pills that come in bold-colored boxes from a Munich pharmacy ($31).
Even a white dish towel ($19) gets a close look and appreciation: "It reminded me of the starched aprons of well-mannered waiters in Germany and a delicious meal I had of trout, cabbage and potato."
Ms. Grifo understands the power of everyday objects when you are traveling. In the end, you may remember the shape of a bar of soap, the odd feel of the toilet seat, the clownish graphics of a candy bar wrapper more than all the old churches and crusty museums you felt obligated to visit.
The store’s mission statement, displayed prominently above the shelves, explains that most of the items "are traditional goods that have been developed over generations or anonymous design found in general stores, D.I.Y.s and kiosks: products designed not around one personality but the result of local aesthetics and needs."
After grad school, Ms. Grifo sharpened her acute eye and sense of design working in fashion public relations, set design for film and theater, and finally as a prop stylist for photo shoots. Instead of buying Manolos, she prudently saved her money to travel, collecting weird items that could fit in her bag. Soon clients and friends were begging her to bring back more.
She opened the store in November 2005 with her friend Ross Menuez, a designer who had been using the space as a studio. Mr. Menuez now works elsewhere and is a consultant for the store. Kiosk shares the space with Areaware, a design firm. Its showroom is in the back, sectioned off with shelving and a crepe paper curtain.
The space feels raw, quiet and open, more like an artist’s studio in Bushwick, Brooklyn, than a place of commerce. With each country she has featured, Ms. Grifo has observed a theme emerging. It may be unsurprising that many of the items from Germany are about control (hello, egg pricker), organization and efficiency.
For example, the Kwik Project Journal ($11) is a blank book with a page divided for each day of the week, and a perforated tab that you can rip out and use to complete your related errands. "I am testing their book on my husband, Marco, to see if it has any impact on his behavior," Ms. Grifo’s blurb says.
I liked the two Kaweco Sport pens. Developed in the mid-1920s, the compact pen can easily fit in a back pocket. I bought the white ballpoint ($20) and black fountain pen ($25).
