This is the story of how I fell in love with Google Street View, which is really a story about coming home
I was eight years old when I learned what nostalgia feels like. Standing at the top of a hill near my family’s rented farmhouse in Ohio, I surveyed spiderwebs glittering in the morning dew while pining for firefly-lit evenings outside my old church in Tennessee.
When I was 10, we moved to Slovakia. While my parents boxed up the house on Spruce Street, I ran out back to rake my fingers into the sandy earth, filling an old film canister with Pennsylvania dirt I’d label in blue ink: “U.S.A.” Later, when we moved back to the US just before my 16th birthday, I added a handful of now-defunct coins to my collection of photos, letters and United States topsoil.
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