The Stogie

I don’t know exactly what got me going. I don’t know if it was the south of France or too much time or simply watching Terry Benedict on the Ocean’s movies, but it seemed to me I needed to smoke a cigar. As you well know, the selling of Cuban-made cigars in the United States has been illegal for many years. However, here in France and all over Europe, the nation’s don’t seem to have the beef with Cuba that we do. So, needless to say, Cuban cigars are in every corner tobacco shop. Since Europe allowed me this freedom I felt, for some strong, but seemingly random reason, that I should not, could not leave this continent without having first puffed on a true Cuban. I dwelled over my decision for many days. At this point in our trip, a five-euro cigar is a major luxury, and yet I persuaded myself to do it, take the opportunity and have 20 minutes of tobacco burning bliss. I purchased my very high-end Romeo y Julieta cigar for five euros and thirty cents. When I got home, I pulled it out of its case and inhaled the scent of cedar and tobacco and imagining myself contentedly puffing away on our porch, watching the sun set through the thick wisps of smoke. After a day of delay, I decided that the afternoon had arrived. I brought a book, a box of matches and the precious stogie out to the terrace. I lit, I puffed, I enjoyed. And then came the last bit of the cigar. I had taken my time, enjoying the weather and the atmosphere and thinking of when I was going to start my own fine cigar collection, when I started to feel slightly off. My head became a little lighter than normal and my fingers felt tingly and my stomach began to churn over breakfast and lunch. Now I have to tell you, this wasn’t the first time. I have had my share of bad cigar experiences before. Nausea, tingling, sweating and even eventual vomiting had all been apart of my incident-plagued past. For some reason, I felt this was different. I had taken my time, I had enjoyed the moments and I had truly felt that it was something I could get used to. And then, after stumbling quietly into the house, my head pounding by now, I slept. For two hours straight, with the scent of burnt leaf still on my fingertips, I slept. When I awoke, and the feeling remains, I wanted nothing to do with cigars. Every time I have tried them, I have had the image of myself in my mind, something, someone I wanted to be. I wanted to be able to open the door of my humidor and offer my best friends a very pricey, very rich, very Cuban cigar. And yet, it seems to me now that wanting to love cigars, for me, was really to love the idea and the image of what I would be if I smoked one. I think sometimes I end up doing that same thing through my life. I get myself involved in things, buy things, research things and get interested in things that in reality, I don’t even like. I like them for other people, I like them so that I look like I like them and look the way I want to look to everyone else. I guess I have gotten caught up in the image of life, not the reality. I have taken to trying something till it makes me nauseous, sleeping it off and then forgetting about it until the next time, trying not to remember if I liked it or if it mattered at all, but seeing myself as I pictured, the image of who I desperately want others to see. I think I’m going to try honesty for a while. I’m going to like things that I actually like and be not who I picture, but who I really am.