(And why some memories stick with you long after you leave their streets)
Here's a strange confession: half of the memories I cherish weren't that
special when they happened. They used to make sense, like how a blurry old
picture only looks good after you've lost the place it was taken.
You might know what that feels like too.
When you smell roasted chestnuts, you might be washing dishes or stuck in
traffic. It makes me think of Paris from twenty years ago. Or the sound of a
train whistle makes you think of a small station in Switzerland where nothing
happened except for a minute of silence that you still remember.
We don't choose what stays.
But we can choose what to do with it.
This is a story about that choice.
The Memory That Wouldn't Go Away
I think about a certain time a lot. It wasn't a big deal. There was no postcard
view, no big revelation, and no journal entry written in poetic ink.
I was in Athens. In the late afternoon. Light coming through a crooked alley
that made it look like it was taking its time. A vendor cutting tomatoes like a
pro after doing the same thing for forty years. A kid chasing a pigeon, sure he
would win.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
But the scene stuck with me like it had a reason.
Someone who read an early draft of my memoir years later commented that your
memories seemed ready to resurface at any moment.
Yes, that's right.
Memory knocks on your door, first softly and then more loudly until you let it
in.
1. Why Some Memories Are Hard to Forget
A lot of people want to know how I remember so much from my trips.
I really don't.
Only a few strange, out-of-place moments decide they want to stay.
There are never any of the Five Must-See Landmarks.
It's the laugh of the Parisian bank clerk who helped me even though she didn't
have to.
The Swiss kid is giving me a pear like they're telling me a secret.
The taxi driver in Tel Aviv played Fairuz songs the whole way and said,
"Old music remembers us."
Those things stick with you because they touch your heart. Perhaps it's because
I'm interested. Maybe being kind. It might make you remember that people you
don't know can be very nice.
Someone once wrote to me, "I can't remember the museums I went to, but I
can still remember the woman in Rome who taught me how to buy bus
tickets."
That's right.
The heart retains what our daily routines overlook.
2. Sensory Memory: The Unfair Advantage
of Traveling
One smell can take you back in time by decades, which isn't fair.
Cinnamon? Marrakech right away.
What do the smells of diesel and the sea smell like? Manila.
At dawn, Buenos Aires has fresh bread.
Travel has a sneaky way of giving you sensory anchors that you didn't know you
were collecting. You think you're just eating shawarma in Amman at midnight.
Ten years later, you can still smell the same spice mix in a store, and it
makes you feel like you could walk around in it.
Sometimes I write a scene and realize that the details weren't lost; they were
just waiting for the right key to unlock them. The way it tastes, sounds, and
feels, as well as the stranger's accent. Those keys.
Someone once said about my book, "Your descriptions made me smell places
I've never been."
That line still makes me laugh.
3. Writing to Keep Places Alive
I documented my memories to preserve the people within them, not out of fear of
forgetting.
For example, the pianist in Tokyo left a single rose on the piano every night
before practice. I met him once. Just once. But if I wrote him down, he could
stay. Or the fisherman in Chile who told me that the mountains look different
to different people. He thought that his writing would make him live forever.
That's the quiet magic of stories: they freeze a moment in time.
You put it in front of the light.
And then all of a sudden, it's everyone's.
Someone sent me a message last month that said, "Your story about the rose
on the piano made me cry in the best way."
That's why I write. That's why memory is so important.
Because sharing moments makes them even more special.
4. Memory Helps You Get Through Tough Times
Certainly, not all travel memories are positive experiences. Some of them carry
the weight of history: Berlin was split in two, South Africa was in the middle
of apartheid, and border checkpoints were more stressful than concrete.
However, memory has a gentle way of easing the pain without erasing the
experiences.
It makes the corners round.
Makes fear clear.
Turns confusion into clarity.
It can help you heal to look back.
I once wrote about how I got completely lost in early Israel. I was scared
because of the heat that felt personal, the roads were confusing, and the
directions were wrong. People laughed when I told it again years later. I
laughed too. Because time had made it soft and human.
A woman wrote later, "Your story made me feel better about my own
problems."
That's so pretty, isn't it?
Someone else can find strength in the worst days of your life.
5. Ultimately, we all become the tales
we tell.
After years of wandering and writing, I've learned this: we don't just remember
things. We become them.
The small things we remember.
The people who surprised us.
The views made me feel at home for an hour.
The errors that turned into stories.
The fears we had to deal with.
The things we do make us who we are in the world.
Intentionally remembering, with love and acceptance, allows us to gain insight
into our present selves.
If you're reading this, you likely have memories that nudge you from within.
The kind that say, "Please write me down." Tell someone I was
important.
Consider this your personal invitation.
Start with one moment.
One scene.
A random detail, sound, or smell.
See where it goes.
And if you want to keep reading stories like these, if you like going through
someone else's memories until you see your own in a new way, you can stay in
touch. You can sign up, share, or just come back for the next story.
No worries. No funnel for sales. Only for the company.
I have a question for you before you go:
Which memory lingers in your thoughts?
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