Before Encarta, knowledge came in heavy, smelly encyclopedias — my family’s set was burgundy, with gold letters, and my little fingers struggled to pull down a volume without tearing a page. After Encarta, knowledge had sound. Motion. Surprise.
Mi primera Encarta wasn’t just software. It was a key.
That CD was my first digital window. And like all first windows, it eventually closed — replaced by broadband, Wikipedia, YouTube. But every so often, I remember the whir of the CD-ROM, the click of the globe, and that quiet feeling of a whole universe fitting into a disc.
It came on a shiny CD-ROM, the kind that felt like holding a futuristic mirror. My father slid it into the bulky computer tower, and the machine whirred to life like it was waking from a long sleep.