When I was 19 I went on a two week road trip with my best friends. It was my first big adventure. We drove and we camped and it rained and rained. We sang and we fought and we learned to love ourselves and the breeze and New England.
One of our main stops was America's Stonehenge in Salem, New Hampshire. Along with the eel farm in Conn. and the elephant-shaped building in New Jersey, it seemed like a kitchy thing to do. And it was. Kitchy. We saw the "Sacrifice" Table and the "Oracle" chamber and all sorts of rocks laid out in different patterns.
I bought a t-shirt that I still wear. Little did I know, though, that my friends brought another souvenir home for me while I wasn't looking. They stole a piece of America's Stonehenge to give to me for my birthday. Just a small piece. A rock the size of a shoe. About a size 9 or so, men's. They probably got it from the parking lot and not from the mystical place itself (I hope). I still have that rock. For a long time, it lived it my car because I felt guilty about having a stolen mystical rock in my house.