The Material of Memories

I once stood on the red rock floor of ancient cliff dwellings and imagined the spirits of past civilizations in the wind through the high desert pines.

I don't think about this moment until a photograph of Mesa Verde flickers across my screen saver, and I am there again, feeling the past in my present.

There's a particular musty smell that can put me right back in my aunt's beach house, and I am 12 years old with a week off from chores: a week of reading books without guilt and aimlessly walking the beach. I feel sleepy and spoiled in this memory, lulled by the sound of the waves and luxurious irresponsibility.

So much of the "why" of travel is to fill our senses with memories of magical experiences. But memory is a malleable thing, a dream can be more vivid in our recall than reality. Some of my dreams are my most beautiful memories.

One night we watched a documentary on the wilds of China, and though we had just intended to watch a few minutes to test out the qualities of our new television, we were soon completely absorbed by the stunning scenery playing out in front of us, this remote part of the world the average tourist could never reach.

When it ended we were briefly speechless to be transported back into our comfortable living room. We had just been to China, but had not suffered jet lag or security check points or lost luggage. We laughed.

Then I wondered: if an intense visual experience could do this, what would happen if we engaged all our senses? An irresistible idea.