Wish I Was There . . . Again (Part 2)


Alhambra, Granada

A few posts ago, I shared some garden travel photos that I had found in a box in the attic.  They were from a time when photos were developed on film, the sort of pictures you could touch and flip through to relive the moments caught.

Today, however, I’m doing some digital cleaning.  There may not be any flipping through pictures, but there is clicking through snapshots of vacations gone by.

While I certainly love the hefty feel of an open photo album across my lap, any kind of photo can re-ignite the senses from a captured piece of time.  A picture is worth a thousand words, but so too is a pixel.

Like the photo above, for example, which was taken at the Alhambra in Granada, Spain.  Each time I see this photo, I can imagine trysts and stolen kisses, plots and deceit — all hidden from view by the thick greenery . . .

But I’m jumping ahead.  I wanted to save the Spain photos for the end of this post.

Our first stop, then, is a brief stop in the southern United States.

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Wish I Was There . . . Again (Part 1)


SicilyThere was a time when cameras used film, and that film had to be brought to a photo developing retail outlet, and that outlet would print your photos and supply a free second set.  One set for the photo album; another set for . . . well, I guess, a box.

That’s the box I recently came across while in the attic — for Joe and me, that’s 25 years of negatives and photos of vacations gone by, and so many “ahhhhh” moments captured — the sort of moments that begin with a single picture and then goes something like this, “Remember when we. . . and that’s when . . . and we saw . . . “

Soon, the moments are stitched together, like a verbal photo album.

In the photo above, Joe and I were driving through the heart of Sicily in search of the village from where my maternal great-grandfather began his journey to America.  At one point, there was a curve in the road and a view of the valley, orderly rows of olive trees caught in a game of hide-and-seek sunlight.

Join me as I take a walk down memory lane, or, rather, down the global garden path . . .

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