I'm talking about the heat -- all 132 relentless degrees of shirt-drenching, soul-sapping heat. After a month in India, I'd passed out from heat exhaustion at Jaipur's Pink Palace and lost 15 pounds.

Would I rather have warmed my cheeks in the flames of a funeral pyre on the holy Ganges, placed my palm on the startling face of the Taj Mahal in the relative cool of January? Sure. But July is when I could afford to go, and the memories of those sticky days remain among my sharpest.

Especially the airport riot caused by angry passengers delayed more than 24 hours. But that is a different story.

Yes, sometimes I was lonely -- and still am; sometimes I am downright panicked. On that first trip to Asia I devised strategies: Study the route between the airport and your hotel, so the taxi driver won't know you're a newbie and take you for the wrong kind of ride. If a neighborhood looks dodgy, assume it is -- and get out fast. Talk with everyone you know to find out who they know in your destination, then meet those friends-of-friends for drinks. Sign up for a day tour to get a sense of the city -- and maybe meet like-minded travelers. Take a book to dinner. Have your hotel make your dinner reservation and explain you'll be dining alone -- and aren't looking for a date. Hang out at cafés popular with budget travelers; chances are, you'll get tips for your next destination, maybe even meet a lunch pal.

Along the way I did meet new people. Some are now long-time friends, others simply cherished memories.

MEMORIES ON THE WALL

Only buy what you can carry;

If you can't carry it, grab cash.

Some rembrances you store in a photo album; some you display in the living room.

I started my ''collection'' in Asia, where paintings, jewelry and fabrics so meticulously crafted by hand were still widely available -- and relatively cheap. Silk baby hats whimsically fashioned with animal faces and curling tiger tails fit easily into my bag. A dragon woven from rope could be crammed between T-shirts. Ceramic dinner plates were packed into a lacquer box and hand-carried onto the plane. An African mask tall as a young teen was checked as baggage. A Mongolian lamb hat came home on my head.

In our house, these bits are affectionately known as ''Jane's junk.'' Masks, rugs, pillows, shawls, handmade papers, an old wooden stirrup, Japanese woodblock prints, Balinese sarongs appear in every room in the house. If we didn't negotiate for the absolute rock-bottom price for every item, we at least enjoyed the haggling.

The lamps started in Morocco. The first day I spotted a cinnamon-colored ceramic lamp trimmed in silver in the Marrakech souk. The Husband tried to discourage me. ''You'll see it in every market,'' he complained. I insisted; he told me I'd have to carry it. And carry the bulbous thing I did, through winding lanes and onto trains and into hotel lobbies. But I never saw another like it.

Emboldened, I picked up a hanging blue glass kitchen lamp in Berlin, a red-and-yellow ceramic table lamp in Guadeloupe, a pair of lacquer bases with hand-made umbrella shades in Myanmar, carved wooden lamp bottoms in Thailand, dancing terracotta lanterns in Bali. When the yellow-and-blue Chinese-style ceramic lamp purchased in the English countryside arrived by mail with a broken lid, I almost cried -- and switched to items less perishable.

NEVER, EVER SHIP

For years I stuck to the no-shipping policy; if it couldn't be crammed into a carry-on or checked on the plane, we weren't buying it. So when The Husband scrambled into the back room of a dusty shop in western Cameroon and demanded that I check out a pair of five-foot-tall dancing masks, I was aghast. No way were these fitting in our guide's SUV.

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