I wish I had started journaling earlier in life.
I wish I had a shelf of windows into the past I could skim through to rediscover my past joys and struggles. I could use them. It would have done me good to write down my thoughts. I know that now.
While I never took to the long-form of journaling in my youth, I occasionally sent myself letters and postcards over the years. Sadly, the shelf for those is now empty as well. However, some of the memories are still there.
About three decades ago, somewhere between graduating from university and wondering if the Y2K Bug was going to crash civilization, I made the best drunken decision of my life.
I was waiting tables at a pseudo-fancy restaurant in Boston, and I had popped off for a bit of Happy Hour after a lunch shift with a mate. Over our first few drinks, he casually mentioned he had read about cheap flights to Paris. He wanted me to go with him. I dismissed the idea, but with each drink, he found a new way to bring the idea up.
Happy Hour became Dinner & Drinks, leading to Billiards & Beer & Billiards, and finally Panic & Payphones. That was how, at 23:45 one cold winter night, somewhere in the Back Bay, my friend and I stood at a bank of four payphones, two for each of us, frantically trying to book flights to Paris.
We got through five minutes before the deadline and booked the flights (on my credit card, of course.)
April in Paris? Who could say no to that? The whole trip was a comedy, tragedy, and everything in between.
The day we arrived, all transport was on strike.
We hadn’t even thought of booking a hotel in advance.
On our first night, someone released mace in the bar we were at, requiring everyone to evacuate.
Three angry Frenchmen attacked me on my way back to the hotel.
Etc..
While the first day was rough, it was a fantastic trip. However, this post is not about the journey but about Postcards to myself from the past.
My two favorite memories of that Paris trip are of writing, but at the time, I hated to write. The first instance was at the cafe Les Deux Magots. I remember sitting at a small round table on the sidewalk, sipping coffee and soaking in the feelings, sounds, and smells. To me, that was more important than visiting the museums. I wanted to feel like a local. I didn’t want to visit the pool; I wanted to soak in it.
While soaking in the atmosphere and watching people pass by, I pulled a pen from my pocket and decided to describe what I was seeing, hearing, smelling, and feeling. I chose to write on the round paper placemat from my table, as I did not have a journal then.
I folded the paper in quarters and filled each in with observations in turn. Once I had finished, I folded the placemat into the shape of an envelope and tucked it in my bag. Upon returning to the hotel, I requested some tape, sealed it up, wrote my address, and paid at the front desk to put it in the mail.
Later in the week, my friend and I celebrated our last night in the city at an underground restaurant that appeared to have been carved out of the bedrock. It was a price-fixe menu that included endless wine. It was dangerous, as the wine was rather good by our standards, and we had built up a considerable thirst while covering our Doc Martins in dust, walking the city all day.
As it turned out, this restaurant also used paper placemats. So it was that as my friend and I dined, we scribbled bits of stories and observations from our stay in Paris. Ultimately, the placemat, which was between A0 and A1 in size (poster-sized), was entirely covered in stories, sketches, and food & wine stains. The final edition, completed during dessert, was the contract regarding how the “document” would be shared between the “two parties.”
I arrived home in Boston before my message from Les Deux Magots arrived, and while waiting, I had the larger placemat mounted on a poster board to hang up. Sadly, both documents have been lost to time, but the memories remain.
I wish I had maintained the practice of sending postcards home from all of my trips in such a manner, as I think those memories would be better than the cheap souvenirs I came back in their place. Maybe I could go back through my old passports and take the time to fill in the black spaces those cards should fill.
The Takeaway
Journaling is not just writing to get things out. It is also a way to provide yourself a window to your past. I wish I had more such windows to look through. I am actively journaling now, but I wish I had started when I was much younger. Have you started?
Everywhere you travel, buy a pack of postcards. The photos will be better than anything you can take, and while you are on holiday, use your spare moments to jot down what you see, hear, smell, and feel. Post those to yourself from the hotel or airport, and you will receive lovely reminders of your holiday in the days/weeks that follow your return home.
This post comes out of a comment thread from this article by Sheila.
While I am giving credit, the post below, by Madelinedore, reminded me of the idea of sending postcards to oneself. In particular, I like how the article differentiates between taking photos for yourself vs. posting them to social media. I saw this as similar to writing letters to myself, as in both instances, the target audience is the self.
That is an excellent y magnifique retelling, Monsieur Etienne. You have my permission, if you so choose, to change "Happy Hour" to the more apropos "Matt Night". :-)
Thanks for mentioning me here, it’s lovely to see the results of bouncing ideas off each other. I love the suggestion of postcards for the photos and then writing what you see and hear! Fabulous idea!
I’d love to hear your local area and see your post cards! I might do the same for here, albeit post cards are harder to find, I have a supplier from an artist. ☺️