THAT is how many photos I’ve collected on my laptop since last June.
And I’m going to share 7 of them with you.
But first, I want to tell you a story.
I get homesick.
I remember one particular week this past spring semester. It had been a rough few days at college (or so I thought at the time) and all I wanted was to go home.
I was so homesick that I decided to check my mailbox.
Which you only do if you’re looking for even more sadness, of course. Sadness in the form of (probably) a bill from some online thing I didn’t mean to sign up for, or a project with an imperfect grade plastered on it in big red letters… or maybe if you’re lucky (not sadness), a note from home.
This summer, I went to the Hawaiian Island of Oahu with three close friends, and came back with sun poisoning, a bruised tailbone, and an unexpected amount of content to write about.
Let me tell you about just one of the eight days.
Maybe in another post, I’ll tell you about the other seven days on the island. And maybe about “Tiger Lounge,” our special invite to a gathering of weed-smoking hippies who play musical instruments in a laundry room.
I recently went through my phone deleting some photos, trying to clear up space.
It seems like I try to do this at least once a week, but each time it turns into a nostalgic activity of me looking through the photos and forgetting to delete them.
This exact pastime of mine was occurring when I came across the hundreds of photos from Israel.
As I flipped through each photo, memories of moments came flooding back as if I had hit the “play” button on a home movie series starring sunburnt, sleep-deprived, happy Carrie (running on iced coffee, dried figs, and hummus).