Did you send me a postcard once? If you chose it with some care, wrote a pithy message, or a long message, or sent it from a place dear to me (or us), most likely I still have it.
Open any drawer in my house and you will likely find a postcard. One I received or perhaps one I meant to send. (Or they may belong to Mike's "postcard collection," mainly culled from museum gift shops). I still buy postcards when I travel, and yes I even mail them.
Postcards are meant to capture a moment in time -- duh!
But sometimes I am stunned by how well they fulfill that mission.
One of my favorites is from my British friend Alex, whom I met in Siena when we were two aimless Study Abroaders, looking more for trouble than anything else (she was actually on her Gap Year).
Later after we'd left Siena (run out of town?!), she found the perfect postcard -- the one above -- and then added the perfect caption: "In memory of the casino we created therein." How could I not save it all these years? (casino = trouble)
It's part of a correspondence whose postmarks include not only Italy but also Luxembourg City, London, of course, Atlanta, Iguazu Falls (she's a world traveler) and many other far-flung destinations.
In fact, I've found a way to have the best of both worlds in postcard land -- a see-through lucite block picture frame where I can show off the front image as well as the inscription that has worked its way into my heart.
As I mentioned in my silly letter to Marie Kondo post (see here on right), I also have a postcard from my Florentine friend Floriano (say that 5 times fast). He'd gone to Ireland (years ago) and sending me a postcard from his trip, he wrote, "The land of your ancestors is amazing!"
One line that simultaneously pays homage to the country my family tree hails from and telegraphs this dear friend had been listening while I went on and on about being Irish-American.
Postcards, like I said, can do some very heavy lifting.
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