The first rule of an Edelweiss tour is reassuringly simple: You are never lost. “And in our case,” the tour guide added just prior to departing Barcelona, “as long as you don’t cross a border, you know you’re somewhere in Spain.” He had a point. And with that calming rationale wisely imparted to assuage any angst we intrepid adventurers might have, armed with an array of detailed maps, we were let loose upon Spain.
Recapturing the elusive past is often a risky business, whether it is skinny dipping into romantic waters with an unrequited high school crush at a 40-year class reunion, or acquiring that long sought after motorcycle you lusted for during your undercapitalized youth. The collision of hazily distorted memories with the unflinching starkness of current reality is an ugly accident not so patiently waiting to happen. Perhaps it is a wiser choice to pursue a contemporary item that possesses the essence of your memory, rather than the original object of your affection.