The feel of the air against my skin has a viscous smoothness. Heavy and dense, it wraps around my arms, soothes my lungs. A hint of spice, cinnamon and nutmeg, from the cabinet and it doesn’t matter that the liquid air is due to a high of 40 and the snow melting. It doesn’t matter my physicality is in Maine. I am back on Saba. The tingle of excitement brought on by learning to scuba dive is a moment behind. The chill of the regulator against my tongue, the uncomfortable way my lips must wrap around the rubber. But the sight of the coral reef and the life it boasts makes me forget the discomfort and the fear of losing a contact lens at 60 feet down. I’m over the edge of the boat with a flip of my heart. The wet air is replaced by a warm ocean and I am hovering above a wavering fantastic coral forest while my ears sing at the sudden compression.
Air that scorches your throat with every breath and light that burns through closed eyes, that is Acapulco. A hint of fresh tarragon and lemon, strong smells of seafood, the cold of coconut and pineapple drinks on my tongue is the taste. The Pacific is saltier than the Atlantic I am familiar with and oh so warm. Rip tides are constantly tugging at my calves, threatening to pull me off my the tenuous perch of moving sand. But then, the water is a bare relief to the baking heat. I head back to dash across the sand to the shade and another cool drink, drinking in relief while hoping the heat lodges in my bones as insurance against the winter waiting for me back north.
Warm rain and diesel fumes and I am sixteen again on my first trip without my parents. I am with my best friend and classmates in Paris. You would think with all the croissants we ate that it should be the smell of butter and chocolate that reminds me of France. But the most vivid memory is of standing on the street early in the morning. It is April and it is raining. Buses zip by as we walk along the Seine. The air is full of the smells of the city: exhaust and wet concrete. I am in awe of Montmartre, the history of its artists and writers, shocked by a free bohemian life led on its red lit streets. I cannot imagine the wars that have darkened the city, despite seeing the beaches of Normandy. This is the first time I felt wanderlust, that I didn’t want to go home. Innocent, I am most in awe of safe things: Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre. The rest escapes my young heart and bright eyes.
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Oddly nothing reminds me of England. Not even photos bring me back. The story remains firmly in the third person, a girl living nine months in another country. My lost year like a childhood memory that I remember remembering but don’t recall having done. Were my senses dead? Unlike so many other places, the barrier of time remains impenetrable and the scenes play like a poorly scripted movie in my mind. It had been a long sought dream come true to live in Manchester as a student. Now, I stumble to mention it to people. It doesn’t feel real to me.
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I wonder what it will be that reminds me of Maine when I am in some foreign land? A blast of cold air from the opening of a freezer and a whiff of wood smoke, the smell of salt air and pines, or the humid smell of rotten cabbage elicited by the paper mills? It has been my home both loved and hated for a decade. I know like so many other times and memories, I will carry the paths I have walked here with me wherever I go. The stone beaches, snow, pines in winter, misty fall, auroras, and days learning to sail are written into my flesh, one with my bones. And someday, some fleeting moment stirred by scent or sound, feeling or taste will bring me back.
