I have smoked cigars:
Behind the wheel of sports cars and off road vehicles.
Elbows deep in grease or suit-clad in high-society.
Mountaintops. Treetops. Plateaus. Camping. Hiking. Biking.
Pubs, clubs, bars. 3rd world countries. My backyard.
At 10,000 feet or sea level.
Oceanside. Poolside.
Rooftops and basements.
With old and new friends. With dozens of others or alone.
Sunset. Sunrise. Under moonlight.
Cramming for exams.
Events and festivals. Celebrations and mournings.
In hammocks or on park benches.
On top of cars. Under trucks.
With police officers. With felons.
= = = = = =
Whether it has been dockside in boats or atop castles with moats, I have gained large amounts of life experience points while smoking cigars. These points are only valuable to myself, so trying to redeem them like airline miles would be useless. (I’ve already got duffelbags and useless gizmos from that anyhow.) These points, these individual tokens of past experiences, continuously build upon the others each and every time I smoke: very similar to “rollover minutes.” By sitting still for the entirety of a cigar, I have an opportunity to reflect on old times or to relate new ideas to current issues at hand. I can be active, meditative or anywhere in between.
Regardless of where, with who or under what circumstances I’m smoking, I treat each and every time I light-up as an experience to be remembered and a time to be intentional with life. In the three short years that I have had cigars as part of my long list of hobbies, I’ve not regretted a single minute. From the $20 stogies in fancy boutique shops to the ruggedly hand rolled El Salvadorian singles picked up from a street-side vendor, every cigar has had an impact on me in some form or fashion. The countless stories remembered through each stick can never be replaced: never.
= = = = =
The first cigar I ever smoked was a cheap tubo from a nick-knack shop while on vacation in Hawaii. The name was of the cigar was Hula Girl: Kona Coffee Flavored. What better time to try new things than while on a Pacific island? The only problem was that I had absolutely no idea what the heck to do with the funny, formerly taboo, piece of Hawaiian souvenir trinketry:
“Just bite the end off,” my friend said. “That’s what you’re supposed to do, I think.”
The strangely flavored ground tobacco practically filled the spaces between my pearly whites after my very first cigar decapitation. So, I flicked a borrowed Bic and lit up on a perfectly warm Hawaiian night in January on the balcony of an international hostel with a cool cat from Albania and another shady looking fellow from France.
= = = = =
The rest is essentially, history.
Cheers,
Mad Max
