Remembered moments

One of the first exercises I learned in a writing class was an exercise of memory: remembered moments. With a series of prompting questions I had to list as many details as I could to recreate the scene (for the class it was a childhood car trip). The more details the better: the people I was with, what I was wearing, any conversation or other sounds, the texture of my seat, my mood. The idea is to transport yourself back to that moment.

For the exercise I could only close my eyes and do my best to recall these details, but a journal or a photo are a great help to recreate a moment in your mind. Ever since I dug out my old travel journal the words of my 18th year old self have nudged me to many remembered moments. My memories from when I was 18 are a little hazy and edited with time. But a photo doesn’t lie.

A photo captures a scene with all its details. This is how I am certain I found my plaza in Sevilla (see A Plaza in Sevilla). On my second day in Sevilla, I was wandering around the narrow streets of barrio Santa Cruz (photos at the end of the post) and I turned a corner and saw this lovely plaza. It was surrounded by orange trees, the ground covered in rough cobblestones sectioned into squares, a fountain trickling in the centre. It felt familiar. From a photo I took in 1992.

On my previous visit I wanted to linger in this plaza. My budget did not allow for impromptu cafe stops and I was rushing to catch a train.

This time I stopped in the courtyard. I took a seat. I ordered a pineapple juice and a tapa of espinacas con garbanzos (spinach and chickpeas). And since this is Spain, I lingered. They do not rush you. I have learned I need to be assertive to get the bill (la cuenta por favor!)

I showed the waiter my photo from 1992. He inspected it carefully. Zooming in he examined the details. My writing teacher would approve. “Venga,” he said and ushered me over to the corner of the building. He showed me the new tilework that was added over the original tiles. Some of these old tiles (the skinny horizontal brown tiles from the photo) are still exposed further down the street. Seeing the detail of the original tiles was the final confirmation. It’s the same plaza. No doubt. “Esta aqui,” he nodded.

I asked him if he was here in 1992. “Ah no,” he laughed. It was too long ago. He added, “You should keep the photo.”

Absolutely. I’ve kept it this long. Now I have another photo to pair with it. And a new memory.