Places have a very particular way of existing within memory.
Sure, we have particular memories that exist within places – these act more like photographs, with their own specific lighting, setting, time, weather. But these aren’t the place, not in essence, anyway. If memories in places are like scenes, then places themselves are just what’s left over after the actors and the window dressing have left – a place on its own, almost static in the very thought of it. It’s like they float in stasis in your mind, with a very particular time of day, a type of weather, even if – like anywhere – in reality that’ll change from day to day.
It’s almost as if we process places as feelings – or maybe places are so completely entwined with specific feelings in our heads that the distinct projected image is rendered absolutely unchangeable.
Until we feel a bit differently, and then it does, anyway.