Nostalgia

Tonight I rode my bike past someone smoking on the street.

It reminded me of a friend in college whose dad was exiled from Guatemala as political enemy during the 1980's. She has the most fascinating life story and every detail about her makes me want to be cooler.

She plays a mean flamenco guitar. We used to have music nights at her house. She brought out her bowling bag full of percussion instruments: castanets, tambourine, maracas, egg shakers...there were more than I could count. Of course we had someone on the bongo, and there were a couple guitars floating around the room. We passed the microphone and the lead guitar down the line and everyone would play a song. I played a Russian folk song. She loved it.

We reunited a few months after I graduated at the Springville Museum of Art, which has an entire floor dedicated to Russian art. Because of the high-society nature of the excursion and because my audience was this girl who was too cool for me to hang out with, I felt this unspoken obligation to impress her--to talk about really shocking things so she could say something like, "Yeah, man. That's deep," which is totally something she would say, a little sarcastically, but always with an underlying sincerity. So after discussing the definitions of art and beauty, and of course citing Lev Tolstoy's essay, "What is Art?" (because, hello, it was Russian art, so how could I not talk about Russian literature?) I was feeling pretty good about the depth of the conversation, but all of a sudden there was a silence. And of course I felt the need to just say something so my silence wouldn't give me away. Luckily she saved me and asked a question first.

"What does Russia smell like?"

"Cigarettes," I said impulsively, already feeling embarrassed at the speed and banality of my response. To my surprise, it got her attention. I told her that every time I walk past smoking, even before I recognize the odor as smoke, I stop and say, "Smells like Moscow." The scent brings a cascade of memories and I suddenly feel like I'm stepping through Moscow again.

Every time.