That’s usually the way with travel. You have some notions about what you’ll experience and at some point the path diverges and you end up someplace you hadn’t planned. A side trip in Calaveras County took me to the Fiji islands, the California 6th graders gave way to a Fijian Sunday school, and I was left awed by the redwoods and the sea.

On that Calaveras side trip we went to Moaning Cavern, where the kids roped up to rappel into a hole in the ground. Where that abyss led wasn’t entirely clear to me, but I was shocked to see the first girl disappear like Alice down the rabbit hole. I took a more conventional descent down a series of steps carved into the rock that led to a spiral staircase where the walls popped open to reveal a gargantuan cathedral with flowstones running down the cavern walls. Just above me the first girl on ropes emerged from the cathedral ceiling and inched into the chamber some 150 feet above the cavern floor.

The sight took me to Fiji’s Cannibal Caves, a place I explored on a recent trip to the islands and wrote about for the San Francisco Chronicle. That in turn reminded me of the village church near Savusavu, where one Sunday morning I had a memorable moment with the local children. And that in turn took me to La Dolce Vita, a slice of Italy in the South Seas, where Luigi and Margaret Giuliani have created their own version of the sweet life.

Remembering La Dolce Vita brought me back to Calaveras County, cooking dinner with the 6th graders on camp stoves while the evening sun slanted through the redwoods, lighting up our site and dusting the meadow green and gold. It was the sweet life distilled, a moment captured, appreciated, never to be forgotten.

Granted, Americans, in general, partake in way less “holiday time” than our European counterparts, but is it really true that smartphones and instant gratification through technology are wiping out such a colorful and beloved tradition?

On a recent trip to Bodie State Historic Park, my camera battery died. Such a picturesque place, I was kicking myself, but luckily I had gotten a few shots and still had my non-smartphone, phone camera.

We went into the gift shop and postcards were 45 cents. I decided to get a few, I usually have my kids send them to grandparents and perhaps their own friends, part writing exercise, part ritual. This time I wanted to send one to a family whose dog, (named Bodie, after a ’90s trip together to Bodie) had just passed away. We had created a laminated memorial to leave at the cemetery as a tribute. I thought it would be nice to also send them a postcard.

I have sent postcards from all over the world. I know my dad has an entire file folder of them and I’m sure my mom has them scattered around her apartment, hidden on bookshelves and in piles. Pre-World Wide Web, in the era of aerogrammes (remember those?) postcards were a quick and easy way to say, “I’m thinking of you” or “Here I am in the fabulous place,” sharing a bit about your adventures.

It was always a fun task to buy stamps in unusual places, mail them in foreign mail boxes and know that your missives were en-route to folks you care about. It seems like Facebook updates are often boastful, unedited and on occasion, jealousy provoking. Not always, not so much with close buddies, but sometimes peeking into someone’s life (who is at best tangential to yours) seems a bit voyeuristic.

I’m certainly guilty, I love posting pics, but I worry that we are sacrificing a quality experience, kind of like what the slow food movement is to fast food. I certainly like to see who goes where and what they choose to photograph, but I write about travel and really am genuinely interested in any destination. I just worry that postcards will disappear, and with them, not only a terrific art form and a document of places and time, but also a cherished travel ritual.