Nostalgia
It always comes on me unexpectedly. A scent in the air, the proper caress of a breeze, or a sharp taste in my mouth. It’s never something I see or hear. Biologically some of our most vivid memories are locked in those senses we neglect. That’s how I’m always surprised when that wave of nostalgia hits me.
It always comes on me unexpectedly. A scent in the air, the proper caress of a breeze, or a sharp taste in my mouth. It’s never something I see or hear. Biologically some of our most vivid memories are locked in those senses we neglect. That’s how I’m always surprised when that wave of nostalgia hits me.
For Greece it’s the supple gust of wind mixed with the smell of salt, cooked meat, and petrol as well as the flavors of rosemary on flour-y pita bread. The port is there with it’s numerous ferries lounging on clear blue water mixed with leftover gasoline. Cafes and restaurants line the seaside strip for tourists to wait in. They munch on kebabs made of roasted lamb, onions, zatziki sauce, and lettuce. They pick apart honey baked scones built out of wafer-thin pastry crust. The air is heady with gas fumes and sea salt that create a tinge in the nostrils. A constant stream of chatter provides a backdrop to the music of a nearby cafe. Some europop song.
For Israel it’s a blast of heat carrying pungent cigarette smoke and slowly roasting chicken slathered in tahini. The white sand stretches on in all directions bouncing the heat around. A single tent that offers shade is packed full of tourists. A guide simultaneously smokes a cigarette and drones on about the grave historical importance of the site - to christians. The chicken fat pops and sizzles on a nearby grill. A local, dressed in white robes with a red-and-white-checkered head scarf cooks away hoping to make a few shekels off the tourists. The heat scours my face.
For Israel it’s a blast of heat carrying pungent cigarette smoke and slowly roasting chicken slathered in tahini. The white sand stretches on in all directions bouncing the heat around. A single tent that offers shade is packed full of tourists. A guide simultaneously smokes a cigarette and drones on about the grave historical importance of the site - to christians. The chicken fat pops and sizzles on a nearby grill. A local, dressed in white robes with a red-and-white-checkered head scarf cooks away hoping to make a few shekels off the tourists. The heat scours my face.
As I am on my way to class it all comes back to me. The climb to Masada, driving up the Santorini path, swimming in Mykonos, and wandering Tel Aviv….
I smell these odors, taste these flavors, feel those sensations, and instantly I’m transported back to those places. I’ve tried to provoke these moments but they are rare and elusive. No, these memories come on their on whim. I don’t mind. When they come I am outside of my own context. No time. No place. I simply, escape.
I smell these odors, taste these flavors, feel those sensations, and instantly I’m transported back to those places. I’ve tried to provoke these moments but they are rare and elusive. No, these memories come on their on whim. I don’t mind. When they come I am outside of my own context. No time. No place. I simply, escape.
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