I hosted a reunion of sorts several weeks ago. I spent last summer going to school in Italy, and a handful of my fellow students got together at my house to reminisce about the rich food, cheap wine and wretched excess of hairy men in Speedos. We filled my house with the smells and sounds and sights of Italy — minus the Speedos, thanks — evoking overwhelming memories of my experience. The food was mouthwatering and the wine intoxicating, but the best part of the night was the photographs.
Photos are a powerful visual reminder. My memory tends to be more early-’80s Ronald Reagan than elephant and seeing my friends’ snapshots brought back memories of experiences that had all but disappeared from my thoughts. I could smell the potent aroma of brewing espresso, taste the addictive flavor of hazelnut gelato and hear the sound of foreign voices bouncing off ancient walls.
I was able to do this because my friends, being more organized than I, had filed away their photos in the neat plastic sleeves of their photo albums. My pictures were not so lucky. They have sat for months in a pile in a cardboard shoebox in my living room. Like many of my projects, this one was ambitious and unfinished.
I made a promise to myself during the trip that dealing with my photographs would be my first priority when I returned home. There was plenty to work with. I’m a pack rat. I kept every brochure, map and train or museum ticket that touched my hands. I’m also a notorious photo whore. If I decide to take a picture of something, it is never just one. It has to be two or five or 10. Nearly a quarter of the weight in my luggage was film and paper. Unfortunately, the significance of it all is slowly seeping from my brain.
I don’t mean to advocate prompt, anal-retentive organizational skills. Instead, I would encourage that pictures and paper scraps be dealt with before all memories of their importance goes the way of Michael Jackson’s dignity: away completely.
My experiences in Italy had life-changing effects on me. I would be forever regretful if I were to forget it. My photo albums will help ensure that never happens.
At this point, I am at least partly on my way to finishing my project. My photos are in order and I have notes in my journal that identify the scenes I can’t recall. My sister gave me the supplies to get started: a leather-bound photo album, gold photo corners and matching gold pens.
My own intentions were less elaborate. The last scrap book I put together was made from a children’s book, from which I cut the pages and then refilled it with cut-down paper grocery bags. It had a charming, ratty effect, but my first European vacation deserved more effort and elegance.
When my scrap book is finally done, it will be a polished testament to my trip that I can revisit decades from now. Arranged in chronological order, it will form a narrative to carry me through the entirety of my journey. The seemingly worthless maps, brochures and tickets give invaluable detail — providing dates, locations and descriptions that would otherwise be forgotten.
It will also provide a concrete way to share my experience with others. Oral accounts are often not enough; the photos and souvenirs will allow my friends and family to visualize what I describe. My travels will be recreated in two-dimensional form, for both myself and others to relive.
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Her views do not necessarily represent those of the Emerald.