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Excerpt from this article:
Imagine a machine that could transport you from one side of the world to the other at the press of a button. One minute, you’re wandering amid the stupas of Borobudur, Java; the next, you’re exploring a grotto in Poland’s Wieliczka Salt Mine; later still, you’re following giant tortoises along a volcanic ridge in the Galapagos Islands. I haven’t been to any of these places. But thanks to that magical machine – not one, come to think of it, but several: on my desk at work, in the study at home, in the pocket of my jeans even – I know they’re all just a moment away.
For that, I salute the ever-increasing richness of Street View, the offshoot of Google Maps that allows you to parachute Pegman – the little yellow icon in the corner of the map – into panoramic photos of the real world.
For many people, Street View, virtual reality, and whatever technology builds on or supplants them, will provide the impetus for adventure. No question about it. But is it too fanciful to suggest that it might also signal the start of a different trend: the ‘traveller’ who, for reasons ranging from lack of opportunity to outright apathy, explores the world through technology alone.
Excerpt from this poignant article in The New Yorker, where the writer describes spotting an image of his deceased mother on Google Street View:
Every now and again, when I’ve been working for too many hours without a break or have spent an entire day writing something, I jump on Google Maps Street View and get lost in my past.
The images on Street View, taken by fancy cameras that are usually—though not always—strapped to the tops of cars, are a boon for basement-dwelling architecture buffs and those who want to see the world without going broke. I use the site for far less cosmopolitan purposes. I track down baseball diamonds and bike trails I played on as a kid. I locate comic-book shops from back in the day, old college dorms, hotels my family stayed in during summer vacations back when we took summer vacations as a family. I plop down in places I’ve been, places that have meant something to me, and look around. Then I compare the contemporary to what’s in my memory. It’s a way to unwind, a respite from more taxing laptop-based endeavors.
At first I was convinced that it couldn’t be her, that I was just seeing things. When’s the last time you’ve spotted someone you know on Google Maps? I never had. And my mother, besides, is no longer alive. It couldn’t be her.
That feeling passed quickly. Because it was her. In the photo, my mom is wearing a pair of black slacks and a floral-print blouse. Her hair is exactly as I always remember it. She’s carrying what appears to be a small grocery bag.
The confluence of emotions, when I registered what I was looking at, was unlike anything I had ever experienced—something akin to the simultaneous rush of a million overlapping feelings. There was joy, certainly—“Mom! I found you! Can you believe it?”—but also deep, deep sadness. There was heartbreak and hurt, curiosity and wonder, and everything, seemingly, in between.