Travel Via a Sniff, a Sight, a Sound

Lately, I’ve been quite nostalgic about my travels, reminiscing as smells, sights, and sounds transport me back to a situation and place I experienced months or years ago.

It’s no enigma as to why my nostalgic mind is on overload (more than usual, I mean). Myself and so many others are nostalgic, grieving, for the way things once were in the pre-pandemic world. Memories, too, can be an escape from the grueling monotony of our current state.

And so it is that I find myself trailing off in thought on more frequent occasions when a sniff of the humid, post-rain morning triggers my memory of early wake up calls in the Amazon. One odorous recollection that leads to another: the fetid whiff of ocelot pee every time I neared their enclosure; the mildewy scent of a book that arrived like-new and left in the damp form of fragile, decaying pages; the musky, lactonic smell of gruel for the baby hormiguero.

Driving down the narrow, windy roads of the Taconic, I forget that I am headed toward upstate New York. Advertisement billboards are absent along this scenic drive, and the rolling hills lush with emergent emeralds resemble the passing jungle canopy of El Yunque National Rainforest. For a minute or two, I am remembering a jump into the waterfall that is hidden among the crowded trees. I am remembering the people I met only the day before at a hostel dinner gathering, the people that have become my traveling companions for the next 24 hours. I smile, and then a Nissan cuts me off and I remember it is just me in this car and my destination is not a Puerto Rican landmark.

Running through the hilly section of town I just recently discovered, broken-down houses sit nestled together. I pass their beaten doors and feel like I’m remembering something from somewhere from sometime. Did I write about these doors? The front door of one home beckons so close to the tapered sidewalk that the barking Yorkie inside sounds like he is right next to me. And then I hear the knob turn, hear a happy family now behind me as I continue my jog. They are speaking in a foreign tongue, and I remember. I remember now.

I am back in Portugal, lost but not worried as I meander, solo and map-less, a section of Porto that resembles my present running route. I am making assumptions; I am imagining; and I am surprised by what lies behind such battered doors.

I am nostalgic for my vagabond lifestyle, my nomadic wanderings, that–like so many things for all of us–have been squandered by a virus and its subsequent fallout. Cancelled trips only increase my yearning for adventure and exploration. I am–we are–trapped by a microscopic monster that is defining our now and shaping our future. But, I remind myself that, just like the sickening in my stomach when I first set foot on uncharted territory alone, this, too, won’t last forever.

A Doggy Christmas

On a typical gray-skied Ohio Christmas morning in 2000, my world—momentarily—came crashing down.  I was twelve years old, the ripe age of dreaming youths on the cusp of teenagerdom.  My sisters and I had ravaged the gifts under the tree before the clock struck eight.  We were lounging in the family room in our matching Christmas pajamas when the door from the garage to the house opened and closed.  A pitter patter of paws announced Louie—the neighbors’ dog—had come to give us holiday cheer.

This chocolate lab—my partner-in-crime, soccer fan, apple picking companion, running mate, sleepover pal, guinea pig friend, and piano enthusiast—was the dog my family had always wanted but could never have.  Dad had allergies since he was a young boy.  But over time, the family started sneaking Louie into the house, and Dad’s allergies seemed to have taken a back burner.  Subsequently, the 115-lb canine had unceremoniously been inducted into our family.  When I would return him to the neighbors’ home after our field trips, Louie would often scratch at the back door, staring at our house, watching for my mom’s van or me kicking the soccer ball around.

That Christmas morning, he bounded toward my place on the couch, his tail knocking over anything in its path.  He covered my face with kisses while I studied the big red bow around his neck.  Attached was an envelope.  My sisters and I eyed our parents suspiciously.

“Open it,” Mom said.

I ripped open the letter, which was typed by Louie himself.

“Dear Girls,” I read aloud.  “You have been so important to me since I moved here three years ago.  With a newborn in the house and another baby on the way, my dad has taken a new job in Philadelphia.”

I stopped reading, a cry somewhere between a sob and a scream creeping up my throat.  My seventh grade mind sprinted like a hamster on a wheel.  Was this what heartbreak felt like?  What about all the memories Louie and I had yet to make?  Why on Christmas, of all days, would they choose to tell me I was losing my best friend?

My sisters and I huddled around Louie, smothering him with smooches and bear hugs, drying our tears on his velvety ears.

“Girls,” Mom interrupted.  “Keep reading.”

I looked up, my face twisted in pain and confusion.  Why would I want to continue reading a tale of my misfortune?  But I wiped my waterworks on my shirt sleeve and forced myself to continue.

“The house in Pennsylvania doesn’t have a big yard.  And my mom already has her hands full with one baby—can you imagine two?!  I won’t get enough attention there, but I always get plenty of attention with you.  I was wondering if I could move in with you permanently?  My mom and dad are okay with it, and your parents already said yes.  So can I be your new brother?”

I was encompassing Louie in the biggest embrace before I even finished the letter. He licked my face in response, as dogs are prone to do.

Everyone receives one gift that stands out among the rest. A lot of people get puppies for Christmas. But Louie wasn’t just a dog. He wasn’t just a gift. Giving Louie to my family on Christmas was an incredibly selfless gesture on the part of our neighbors. Officially welcoming Louie into the Venzel family is my most memorable Christmas moment. This was a Christmas to remember.

What Gets You Most in the Christmas Spirit?

Asparagus (“Gus”) the guinea pig once got into the holiday spirit with this Christmas bow, courtesy of my sister.

Whether it’s animals dressed like elves, Santas all around town or people running through the streets shouting, “‘Tis the seeeeeasoooonnnnn!!!” we can always tell when there’s Christmas in the air. The holiday is a season, a month-long more than a day-long celebration.

Louie, the family dog, would find his presents under the tree every Christmas morning. He was an expert unwrapper.

Growing up, my family used to alternate between seeing The Nutrcraker and A Christmas Carol at the Stranahan Theater in Toledo. Our dog opened his own presents under the tree, sniffing them out Christmas morning among the other gifts and meticulously tearing the paper to shreds. We gathered for Christmas caroling in the living room, my sisters and I each playing a handful of songs on the wooden upright piano we’ve had since I was six. Everyone has a number of family Christmas traditions or noteworthy holiday celebrations with friends. We all have our favorite Christmas memories.