Gasoline Nostalgia
Instead of being lazy and waiting for a bus, I decided to walk all the way back home from the Husky Stadium after tutoring today. It is a 30 minute hike from the low-lands by the lake up the thousand steps by McMahon Hall and finally through the treacherous sidewalks held by the Hobos on the Ave. But I made it. Depsite being hungry, it was a pleasant walk.
I love the beginning of summer, when it is seven in the evening and the sun still warms your face as you stroll across Memorial way past all the ancient beech trees. For some reason, summery afternoons like this one always reminds me of China. I was walking past Thai Tom on the Ave, an impossibly small but popular restaurant always filled with people. There were a crowd waiting outside as usual and as I was trying to dodge past them, I caught the scent of frying oil intermingled with with a whiff of gasoline and the smoke from someone's cigarette.
Right then and there, I seem to be catapulted back into the lazy summer nights spent in China where the street vendors would be selling you lamb kebabs and the throng of people around you are being pushed aside by bicyclers and cars. It is funny how certain combinations of scents, sounds and sights can trigger so many unrelated memories.
I miss China. Even though the things that trigger my memory are the smell of cigarrettes and gasoline, the feel of hundreds of people walking past you on a humid summer night and the whiff of burning oil. I still miss it. Somehow, the feeling that came with the memory is not one of fear or annoyance but (strangely) that of comfort.
I seem to be traveling further and further away from her. But this small little encounter perhaps serves to remind me that, after all this time, China is still home.
I love the beginning of summer, when it is seven in the evening and the sun still warms your face as you stroll across Memorial way past all the ancient beech trees. For some reason, summery afternoons like this one always reminds me of China. I was walking past Thai Tom on the Ave, an impossibly small but popular restaurant always filled with people. There were a crowd waiting outside as usual and as I was trying to dodge past them, I caught the scent of frying oil intermingled with with a whiff of gasoline and the smoke from someone's cigarette.
Right then and there, I seem to be catapulted back into the lazy summer nights spent in China where the street vendors would be selling you lamb kebabs and the throng of people around you are being pushed aside by bicyclers and cars. It is funny how certain combinations of scents, sounds and sights can trigger so many unrelated memories.
I miss China. Even though the things that trigger my memory are the smell of cigarrettes and gasoline, the feel of hundreds of people walking past you on a humid summer night and the whiff of burning oil. I still miss it. Somehow, the feeling that came with the memory is not one of fear or annoyance but (strangely) that of comfort.
I seem to be traveling further and further away from her. But this small little encounter perhaps serves to remind me that, after all this time, China is still home.