It’s funny how a seemingly insignificant observation can mentally take you back to a past conversation, trip, or feeling, without a bit of warning. I’m not talking about Deja-vu, which is too abstract, undefinable, and vague to produce the high-quality flashbacks I’m interested in. I’m talking about driving along and hearing a song that was mega-popular two or three years ago, and was your soundtrack during a memorable time, memorably good or memorably awful; walking through the grocery store and seeing a piece of food that you ate every day for a week during a vacation two years ago; blowing wind that whips through your hair and invades your nose, bringing with it memories of ocean views and an inky black sky.

I don’t know if it was a side-effect of being at home for Thanksgiving and indulging in the nostalgia-porn going back to your roots is famous for, but I had two or three of these out-of-body experiences over break, all pertaining to the same experience.

I was in Israel for the first month of 2016. The majority of our time was spent exploring Jerusalem, the old and new city, and going out on day trips to archaeological sites near the ancient capital. Our nights were filled with conversations on the roof of the college we were staying at, relaxing in Adirondack chairs on the beach of the Sea of Galilee, and exploring the bars scattered through the modern and old sections of the city.

While we moved around the country, the same feeling stayed with me. The best I can describe it is that it was a combination of awe, fascination, excitement, and contentment: a cocktail so potent I’ve been chasing it since I got back, with very little luck. God smiled on me over break and gave me a booster shot in the form of a juicer.

The day before Thanksgiving I was in Wegmans: the most glorious grocery store in the world that only exists in the Northeast and mid-Atlantic. The produce section was full of frantic people getting last minute ingredients for Thanksgiving dinner and my mom and I were no exception. I turned away from a bin of avocado’s and saw a rotating piece of orange plastic in the fruit section. My breath quickened and I walked to the front of the machine to make sure it was what I thought it was. I look directly at it and was transported back to the Middle East.

I opened the door to the bakery, strolled in, and let a big smile cross my face. The smell of rising bread, buttery croissants, and sugary sweet pastries hit me like a brick. The savory, smoky, coffee brewing behind the counter caught my attention next, but was quickly replaced by the joy inducing sight of a piece of orange plastic slowly rotating. The juicer was going full bore, leaving drained orange halves in the attached trash bin. I paid, sipped, and died. Absolute perfection, no additives, just fruit juice. The five of us who had gotten up early enough to stop at the bakery and visit the Church of the Holy Sepulcher (the Church covering the supposed spot Christ was crucified on and buried at) walked out, and continued on to the Temple Mount in the Muslim Quarter.

I reveled in the four feelings listed above: awe, fascination, excitement and contentment while walking around the site of the ancient Jewish Temple, overlooking the Mount of Olives, and Palestinian neighborhoods, for the rest of the morning.

I snapped out of my reverie, found my Mom next to the tomato bin, and tried to hold onto my high for as long as possible.