At least this time I know what set me off.
My co-worker playing Enigma. That's what triggered my all-senses flashback to Faire. I was there, hearing drums, smelling sandalwood and smoke, throat constricting, mouth watering as the cool metal lip of my goblet meets my mouth. The sun is baking me, baking all of us as we stomp through the dust. Dizzying colors swirl around me: ladies skirts, tent flaps, tapestries, banners stirring in the breeze. And the men . . . every kind, every color, shape and size . . . looking at me as if they can hear my heart beating, as if they can smell the hot wine pumping through my veins. Even here, most are too shy to approach . . . but you can always find someone with whom to cross swords in a battle of witty words. Textures of leather, muslin, fur and ribbon . . . long hair spilling over masculine and feminine shoulders alike. I have dreams about Faire - reliving the memories, making fantasies where the lines of reality blur . . . The modern mind drowses while the animal mind awakens, my body alert to the possibilites of kilts, of ale jams, of strawberries and honey mead . . .