Posts Tagged 'cigarettes'

A Smoker’s History: Volume 2

This follows A Smoker’s History: Volume 1.

Later that legendary day when I bought my first pack of tobacco, I was at a bar and a fellow wannabe smoker buddy of mine and I decided to go outside to go roll a cigarette. We sat there in the dark passing it back and forth, using fresh papers, dropping the tobacco… It took us half an hour to roll that goddam cigarette. Two cute French chicks walked by while we were in the process and one asked us to borrow some tobacco; as they walked away with me staring at them, I noticed she had the cigarette rolled by the time she turned the corner fifteen paces away. There was clearly something we were missing.

I lost the pack somewhere on the way back, along with a few of the filters and the papers. Thank the gods, I thought to myself. I didn’t take any action for about a week, since I figured that’s how long it would have lasted me (as a nonsmoker: yeah, right) and I couldn’t afford to blow another six euros like that right away. So that time after that week had passed I just bought Marlboro lights. A couchsurfer had gotten me into them, offering them everywhere we went; so I just took a liking to them..

I’ll speed up the story: so I began rolling my cigarettes more and more (sticking to American Spirits only); and finally, in Germany, the boyfriend of the sister of the guy that I met at the airport waiting for the bus finally taught me how to officially do it, making sure the tobacco content was equal all the way through. Then a simple wrap of your outstretched index finger, and you have a rolled cigarette. It was so much easier to smoke, and I actually retracted the gift I’d given him fifteen minutes earlier of what was left of my tobacco and papers, saying I couldn’t handle it.

So that was it for Europe. I came home and after my welcome home dinner had to tell the folks I was off to smoke a cigarette (since that’s what I DO now, mom), and my dad asked me what else I was rolling inside as he walked out onto the patio. I chuckled. Halfheartedly.

Now I’d like to mention that during the first few weeks of said summer I only smoked three or four rolled cigarettes per day; even if I were drinking, things weren’t too different. I got my tobacco injection, and I was content. I never craved a cigarette: I merely wanted to smoke once in a while, so I did.

And then I ran out of filters and papers, so while I awaited my great friend back in Paris to come with my smoking goods, I smoked the black packs of American Spirits (this was the closest to the rolled ones in intensity), moving on to yellow and blue. Cigarettes were becoming so much easier to push down; I noticed I was smoking a few more than four per day… But then my filters and papers came, and since I still had discipline and morals at the time, I began rolling them again. This lasted all the way until late September, when I ran out of tobacco, papers, and filters while I was in Vermont, en route to Costa Rica after a school orientation.

Arriving in central America, things changed. Drastically. Hanging out with two Austrians on the organic farm on which I was working didn’t help me trying to not smoke so much. Long story short, within three weeks I was chain smoking like I’d never before. Like I’d never even imagined. A pack of smokes was but a dollar, why not smoke a pack per day? Then came the Swiss, and this new habit couldn’t even take the time to see where it was going: it just went. When I went off solo to Nicaragua for about a week, I was hoping that without the influence I wouldn’t do it so much. I didn’t want to do it at all, until the freeways closed down due to flooding and I found myself stuck with three Ticos and a Welshman drinking and smoking the afternoon away at a nearby bar.

I met up with the Europeans once again in Nicaragua, and voilà. I smoked until I came home. Come day after Halloween in the legendary college town of Isla Vista, I found myself as “that guy” who needed a cigarette, begging his best friend’s girlfriend to run home to grab her pack of yellow spirits. I started rolling again soon after that, and albeit that I smoked more than four per day, I still stand by the fact that it’s cheaper and healthier. And what happens late January? I run out of supplies once again.

This is where I officially became a smoker. Stay tuned for part three, coming soon…


A Smoker’s History: Volume 1

Smoke enough cigarettes in any day, complement that with at least three cups of coffee (I limit it to three and a half, though I’m positive we have six and seven and eight cuppers out there), and you just won’t be too hungry. There will come a time when you will begin to shake and you realize you need to satisfy that dull grumbling in your stomach, silenced with the seventh cigarette at three in the afternoon; so you’ll grab a croissant or something small that sounds like it’d go well with—wait for it—coffee.  Sweets normally won’t do it, you know you need fats so you smear some mayonnaise and or hot sauce on that croissant (we love hot sauce because it loosens up the face). Smoke a nice spliff with a beer after that commute home from work or after that last three hour Wednesday night class that you’re already sick of after two weeks, and you won’t need to eat again before passing out to sleep. Get up early, run and have a yoga sesh by 9:30 in the morning, make a healthy, hearty breakfast, and start all over. Hello weight loss.

This is coming from a fairly inexperienced cigarette smoker; I’ve been a true smoker for around eight months now. I started smoking near the end of my year in Europe, when I would just WANT to smoke. In a lifestyle with no work and little school, I can honestly admit that I’m surprised it didn’t come sooner with the amount of smoke ever-present around me.

On January 1, 2008 France passed a law prohibiting smoke inside restaurants or bars or tabacs. I saw this as a great thing (what a perfect word- thing) for nonsmokers who went out to clubs, as we could hardly keep our eyes open in the stinging heat of the smoky dance floors. As far as cafes and tabacs went, however, even as a nonsmoker I wasn’t too thrilled about that (side note: in France, a tabac is basically a tobacco store; all with the same red sign hanging outside, they sell all sorts of smokables from cigarettes to rolling papers. Some of them are purely walk in, buy and leave; while others are actually little cafes where you can get a coffee or beer). One thing I remember the most about those first few weeks of culture shock was the smoking inside these social places, where all sorts of people would stop in their local tabac for a quick espresso and a smoke while chatting with the owner and whoever else may have been inside. I remember not having the gall to sit inside after I’d picked up George R.R. Martin’s illustrated novel and wanted to sit somewhere and read it—maybe because I didn’t smoke, maybe because I didn’t speak French; who knows, at this point?

So come April one morning after a night of drinking [quality, healthy beer] I awoke around nine in the morning, comme d’habitude and I just wanted to smoke. I’d already began puffing away here and there while away in other Western European countries (smoked my first Lucky Strike in Spain—almost threw up. Bought Marlboro lights in Stockholm to get me through my ennui, and on top  of all this I had begun rolling spliffs about a month prior with whatever tobacco I could get my hands on from a neighbor, a roommate, or someone on the street), but it was still more of a drunk thing (that’s how we all start in college, isn’t it?). My problem was the minimal Bukowski I’d read at the time, paired with the French lifestyle [of coffee, croissant, and cigarettes until lunch] that I’d witnessed day after day, on top of the fact that I was still very concerned with my physical appearance (that’s a story for another post). So I walked to my local tabac, bought some Camel rolling tobacco and papers and filters, and walked home. I sat at my kitchen table rolling for about twenty minutes before producing a smokable result, and since the roommates weren’t home I sparked it right there.

The thing about smoking rolled cigarettes, even with a filter, is that it’s a stronger tobacco rush. Until you’ve been doing it for a month, at least, when someone teaches you how to wrap your fingers around it well enough to make it a tight smoke that doesn’t destroy you with tobacco rush, and not so tight that you can’t smoke it. The art furthers when you work on rolling marijuana into these rolled cigarettes with papers twice as long: that’s called a spliff. In either case, your goal is to make the paper tight and taught around whatever’s inside, and but not so tight you get a headrush by trying to inhale. Europeans have some natural instinct that makes them master rollers of any sort; it’s almost freaky. One handed, backwards, inverted… I’ll go out on a limb by calling it the most unappreciated yet most celebrated art in Western culture.

So I’m sitting there sucking on my rolled cigarette and drinking dark coffee with a little half and half, feeling like tough shit there in my dumpy little flat in Aix-en-Provence overhanging a street drenched in the smell of scooter exhaust, when the first headrush comes. I sat there still, trying to hold myself from throwing up like after that first spliff I’d ever smoked (note to self: write about this). I had to light it again after I’d waited for it to wear off, and by four puffs into it, needing to relight its poorly rolled infrastructure every minute, I realized I needed a lot of practice: but I WANTED to roll my cigarettes (healthier + cheaper, what better excuse would a wannabe smoker need?), so I would keep it going. This marks the beginning of my smoker-dom.

Stay tuned for part two…

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Another twenty some odd young adult who believes he sees things from a unique perspective. Here be my poetry & prose, short stories, favored school papers, rantings, and "blogs." Comment, critique, and profit.