“How to See the World,” column for March 22, 2016

Children know things their elders forget: How to be happy. How to have fun. How not to care if you get sand in your shorts. How to see the world with all its wonders as if for the very first and very last time.

I’m sitting by a window in a borrowed house on a hill above Monterey Bay, watching tourists stop to take photos. Luckily, they aren’t taking photos of me. They’re taking photos of the coast. Or maybe photos of themselves at the coast to post on Facebook.

I’ve been watching them off and on all day _ a steady stream of cars, trucks, SUVs, mini-vans, campers and even caravans. They pull into the parking lot of the “scenic overlook” and take a minute to collect phones or cameras or toddlers. Then they get out of their vehicles and head to the prime spot for a panoramic view of the coast.

Depending on the size of the group, they assemble side by side, shorter in front, taller in the rear, with their backs to the bay and big smiles on their faces as if to say, “Look at us, we are here, and you are not.”

Then the one who snaps the photo trades places with someone and they pose again. When the photos are done, they pile back in their vehicles and drive on to the next photo op. On average, start to finish, it takes three minutes. Not that I’ve timed it. I’m just saying.

What surprises me _ and I bet it will surprise you, too _ is this: Of all the people I saw stopping there today, only a few actually seemed to be present. To feel the earth beneath their feet. To hear the wind in the pines. To smell the salt in the air (if only by imagination.) To say “hello” and “where are you from?” to other travelers. And to marvel at the view that drew them to stop. Most seemed content to snap a shot and get back on the road.

There were exceptions. Four or five young couples, perhaps newlyweds, arrived throughout the day and, after taking the usual “selfie,” spent quite a lot of time gazing, not at the view, but into each other’s eyes.

I had no problem with that.

Also, an older couple sat on a bench holding hands, studying the horizon. I couldn’t see their faces. I hoped they were smiling and not trying to remember how to get back to their hotel.

My favorite exception was a boy about 7. He stood alone on a rock with his arms stretched wide staring out at the ocean. What did he see? A sailboat? A whale spout? All his wildest dreams coming true?

A woman, maybe his mother, made him join her for a photo. Then he went back to staring until it was time to go. Whatever he saw, he probably won’t need a photo to remember it.

I spend a lot of time looking at electronic screens, seeing the world secondhand in bits and bytes. My cell phone buzzes like a beehive with messages, emails, videos, good things mostly that I want or need to see.

Screens help us stay connected to the people we love. But they can also make us miss things far too important to miss: The colors of a sunset through the lens of our eyes, rather than through the lens of a camera. The smile of a child telling us a secret he will tell no one else. The danger _ possibly fatal _ of a car braking in front of us. The peace and quiet we seem to find only in peace and quiet.

But screens aren’t really the problem. The problem is how we use them or allow them to use us. I like screens a lot. I’m not giving them up. You shouldn’t either. How on earth would we keep in touch?

But sometimes it’s such a pleasure to set them aside and stand like a child by the ocean, with eyes and arms and heart wide open, seeing the world with all its wonders as if for the very first and very last time.

There’s a name for that kind of pleasure. It’s called being alive.

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