As everything becomes digitized, so much of life now unfolds behind a screen. We read on screens, write on screens, even gather memories in pixels. And from time to time, we miss the feel of paper, not just as a medium, but as a companion in how we used to think, move, and relate to the world.
There is one particular form of paper that evokes a specific kind of nostalgia: the map. Not the silent digital map that recalculates your route at every misstep, but the tactile, folded, sometimes wrinkled sheet of possibility that invited you to get lost a little before finding your way.
Paper maps once invited conversation, attention, and a sense of preparation that is hard to replicate with GPS prompts. For me, the memory of using them brings back vivid moments: quiet talks with a co-teacher from church while we tried to find the right turnoff, long evenings with a Lonely Planet guide open across my lap in a dim hostel room, and the feeling of cold creeping through my sleeping bag as I lay awake inside a winter tent, drawing route lines while listening to a crackling weather broadcast.
These weren’t just travel stories. They were memories of being present, of learning the world through effort, through shared silence, through ink and intuition.
Church Trips and Roadside Rituals
I still remember those student days when I would sometimes be asked to drive for church activities. Whether it was a Boy Scout camp or a Sunday School visit to a rural church, we didn’t rely on apps or automated voices. Instead, we had road maps. Sometimes detailed, often imperfect, but always studied carefully the night before.
One particular memory that stands out is from a trip where I drove while a fellow church teacher sat in the passenger seat with the map stretched across her lap. She wasn’t just glancing at it. She was actively tracing our path as we moved, using a pencil or pen to mark the roads we had taken. If we missed a turn, she could see it immediately and help us find our way back. There was something comforting about that partnership. We weren’t just getting from point A to point B. We were thinking together, adapting together, and talking the whole way, about the children we were escorting, the church we were going to visit, or even just life.
That kind of experience required more than attention. It called for patience and trust. With a physical map, you had to understand the road ahead, not just follow it. And that often meant discussing options, checking landmarks, and staying alert to your surroundings. Even the simple act of unfolding a map inside the car became a shared moment, a small ritual in the journey.
I can still hear her voice beside me, offering gentle confirmations or quiet concern as we moved forward. Those conversations are etched in memory with more clarity than the routes we took. The human connection they carried was as significant as the destination.
Lonely with a Lonely Planet
There was another kind of mapping I often did; this time in unfamiliar lands, far from home. During my overseas fieldwork, in the days before smartphones and constant connectivity, the Lonely Planet guidebook was my lifeline. In those compact pages were everything I needed: bus schedules, local customs, food tips, and of course, maps. Not interactive ones, but printed diagrams you had to study carefully before heading out. And study I did.
Before venturing into an unknown district or town, I would pore over those pages, sometimes tracing routes with my finger or even copying them by hand. There was no instant reassurance if I got lost. I had to trust my own preparation, my memory, and my judgment. At times, I would even close the book and try to mentally walk through the streets I had just studied. It helped me internalize the landscape before I ever stepped into it.
Those evenings, sitting alone with the book, often carried a strange mix of loneliness and clarity. I didn’t always have someone to discuss the map with, unlike during the church trips. But that solitude was a kind of quiet companionship in itself. The Lonely Planet in my hand felt less like a product and more like a conversation with someone who had gone before. I would read not just the facts but the tone between the lines. Even the creases on the pages became markers of the emotional terrain; tired days, hopeful mornings, confused detours, and occasional relief.
Looking back, that kind of travel shaped me more than I realized at the time. There was no digital safety net. You either learned the map or you didn’t get there. And in that learning, there was a deepened sense of place, and of yourself.
Maps Drawn from Memory
Not all maps came from books. Sometimes I had to create them myself.
One period I remember well was when I was involved in delivering appliances. GPS was not yet in everyday use. The sales team often needed accurate directions, and I found myself drawing maps by hand to explain the location. To my surprise, they praised my maps, saying they were unusually clear and helpful.
But it wasn’t just about drawing neat lines. Making those maps required understanding how people saw their neighborhoods, how roads curved, what landmarks mattered, and how to explain those details to someone else. There was a certain artistry to it. You had to imagine the journey from another person’s point of view. You had to see the streets not just as coordinates, but as lived space.
In a way, drawing those maps wasn’t so different from guiding church groups or planning research trips. It was about offering someone else a path, and doing it in a way that respected their need to see clearly. Today, apps do all this with a tap. But the process used to be an act of care.
Mapping the Cold: A Winter Memory
There’s one more memory that stays with me; this time from a more extreme setting. I once joined a group for winter mountain climbing. I wasn’t an expert, but I was invited along by those who were. It was the kind of experience that pushed you to your edge, physically and mentally.
Inside the tent, in the freezing air, we would huddle close, listening to the weather reports on a radio. The reports were crucial. They told us how the pressure systems were shifting, what kind of winds were expected, and whether we needed to alter our course. And we didn’t just listen. We drew.
On scraps of paper or in small notebooks, we updated our maps. We marked areas of risk, adjusted our routes, and recalibrated our sense of safety. There was no signal to check, no satellite view to consult. Just our own ears, our minds, and our pencils.
I remember lying in my sleeping bag, too cold to sleep, still sketching lines and notes from what we’d heard. That map was more than a guide. It was a piece of shared survival. It held not only data, but the weight of our choices and the risks ahead.
Even now, I can feel the texture of that cold night, the way my hand trembled slightly as I wrote, the quiet determination in the tent. There was something very human about it all.
When Maps Started Thinking for Us
Of course, today we live in a different world. Google Maps tells us where to go, when to turn, how long it will take, and even what the traffic looks like. We can wander across cities without ever learning their shapes. We can follow instructions without understanding the terrain.
There is convenience in that, and I use it too. But I can’t help wondering what we’ve traded for that ease. Something has changed, not just in how we move, but in how we relate to places and to each other.
We no longer ask for directions. We rarely prepare in advance. We don’t sit beside someone in the passenger seat and puzzle things out together. The quiet collaboration is gone, replaced by solitary prompts. And as maps have started thinking for us, we’ve stopped thinking in maps.
The Quiet Wisdom of Getting Lost
When I think back to those old journeys, with friends in the car, guidebooks in my lap, or tents pitched in the snow, I realize they all taught me something deeper than how to get from one place to another. They taught me how to be in the world.
They taught me to prepare, to ask questions, to listen, to observe, to adjust, to explain, and sometimes to let go of control. They brought me closer to people. They grounded me in place. They slowed me down just enough to see more clearly.
I don’t want to romanticize inconvenience. But I do want to remember the value of being more involved in the path we take. There’s a kind of dignity in figuring things out, in marking your own route, in making mistakes and recovering from them.
A Gentle Tribute
So when I look back on those days with maps, whether in the car with a co-teacher, alone with a guidebook, or half-asleep in a frozen tent, I don’t just see the lines and symbols. I hear the conversations, feel the tension of decision-making, and remember the quiet triumphs of finding our way.
Those experiences stay with me not because they were flawless, but because they were shared, physical, and alive. They shaped not only my sense of direction but my sense of presence.
While digital maps may always be more efficient, the old ways left traces in the heart. And for that, I am quietly grateful.
Image by Anja
Tom’s Blog 