The fact remains that any however-short stint of no internet access, ridiculous may it sound, unleases the fiery side of my travel blogger self and leaves me fussing and cussing. Now envisage my reaction upon hearing that, after moving into my new London home, I would be plagued by internet deprivation – for ten days.
You heard me: ten demonic days of masochistic torture.
Repercussions include boredom, repetitive tea-making, spam-texting and getting frivolously excited at a cafe because Moves Like Jagger came on the radio – if only I could compulsively listen to my latest obsession in my WiFi-less bedroom.
Though my extradition from the realms of the web hasn’t been without fortuitous perks: desperate for a distraction from the pitiful state of idleness I had resorted to post-relocation unpacking.
Retrospect adheres to every item one owns; just as the negligence intensifies and belongings burrow deeper and deeper into the closet, so are memories and sentiments shoved further beyond reach. Moving homes triggers their release – an eruption of dust, distant familiarity, sudden revelation and episodes of nostalgia.
This time, rummaging through grey-cloaked boxes of equally dilapidated possessions, my journey of hindsight manifested in a stash of postcards I’ve received.
Rediscovery
We’re all prone to forgetfulness. It’s always the little things, utterly significant yet too minuscule to occupy a space in our diaries, that get lost along the memory lane.
Like how my Spanish friend Bea and I used to give each other pet names – I’d refer to her as ‘broccoli’ and she’d address me as ‘cabbage’. According to Wikipedia that apparently would imply we’re somewhat related.
Nicole’s postcard from from Ireland led me to reminiscent how I met the travel blogger, who runs Bitten By The Travel Bug, in the travel section of the Piccadilly Waterstone’s.
Postcards are themselves pieces of your memoirs under the authorship of others. Sometimes penning them doesn’t just depict your awesome misadventures in a certain destination – it contains in-jokes, name-calling, shared memories that, more often than desired, get washed away by tides of more memorable events. Writing a postcard isn’t entirely selfish, jealousy-inducing, wishing-you-were-here; you’re also engraving into cardboard the personal history of a loved one.
Which makes me lament all the postcards I’ve received that I’ve lost in the midst of disorganisation and chaos.
Destination inspiration
They wished I were there. I bloody wish so too.
All the postcards I’ve received originate from, in my opinion, stunning places I have yet to visit.
Even though they spawned from her doorstep that was her hometown, the vibrant scenes of Mallorca on Bea’s postcards have done more than tingle my curiosity – they’re enticing me to pay her a visit soon.
They contribute to your travel aspirations. Never have I step foot in Beijing, Stockholm, or even, rather shamefully, Paris – yet recovering these postcards reignited my fervent yearning to pay homage to these cities. After all, they were so worth the while that people sent me fragments of the cities in a bid to invoke my envy.
Retracing the footsteps
They may be others’ journeys, but, heck, do they remind you of yours.
In her postcard from Paris my German friend Nicole asked if I had enjoyed my stay with her and her family in Dusseldorf – as well as sternly instructed that I complete my coursework. This was part of my Germany trip during Christmas 2009; it was at her very home that The Travelling Editor was conceived.
Teresa Gotay sent me a postcard on her press trip in Aruba – “see you soon”, she rounded off her message. Indeed, we would meet soon after in London and travel together to Manchester to the Travel Blogger Unite conference, where our friendship truly blossomed.
Sweet, sweet nostalgia indeed.
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