The memory of a scent

I am walking down Valencia and my nostrils have filled with a strong sense of nostalgia.

As I pace, my brain and my senses struggle to source the meaning of this smell. I find myself on the first day of university, carrying luggage into my new student residence. Inhaling once more, I am on the grass by the banks of the Thames river. I can feel the thousand or so footsteps to class, the drunken destructive sprints home from the bars, and a calendar that was more spiral than schedule. I remember the taste of dollar beers and make-out bandits and the associated angst and indifference, and I can still hear the clunk of empty bottles of Jack Daniels accumulating on the windowsill.

I'm transported to the dark forest behind our residence where among the tall trees we would — oh, wait. It's weed. The smell is weed. Someone is definitely getting high around here.