Sense memory is amazing. Years go by, and one day a whiff of some aroma brings back those feelings and memories of long ago. 
The aroma of freshly made gingerbread drifts by and I’m five years old sitting at my grandmother’s kitchen table. A whiff of “Coppertone” and I feel beach sand under my feet, salt spray and sunshine on my skin. I rarely drink bourbon, so I don’t know why the taste of bourbon on the rocks should mean anything to me, but it does. The taste always takes me to Los Angeles. Well, to Santa Monica, to be specific. When I think of Santa Monica, I think of riding in a glass elevator on the outside of a hotel. The elevator faces the Pacific Ocean, and if I look below to the other side of Ocean Avenue, I can see Cheerio, my favorite restaurant. I love their steaks.
My room is on the top floor and the only transportation to the lobby is a glass-walled elevator on the front of the building. Every morning I leave my room and walk to the elevator. Daylight shines through a crack between the elevator doors, and I know that if the doors could open without the elevator being present, I would be looking into space, looking at a fearful drop to the street below. But when the doors open, the elevator is there.
I step into the elevator and my first view is a magnificent expanse of blue Pacific water. Looking right and left I see the outside of my hotel -- I am actually outside the building now -- and I feel somewhat like I am standing in space. As the elevator carries me gently to street level, the ocean slowly sinks behind buildings across the street that become taller with each second. I go to the parking garage and get into my rental car, and I drive to work. In the afternoon I return to the hotel, park in the hotel garage, and walk to the elevator. The elevator carries me up, and the buildings across the street fall away from me as the Pacific rises into view. The afternoon sun sits above the horizon. Sunlight sparkles across an impossibly large expanse of water. I go to my room, flop on the bed, turn on the TV, and unwind for an hour. Then I go across the street to Cheerio and order a steak, medium rare.
On weekends I drive to the observatory on Mount Wilson, marveling at the sight of snow on the ground
not that many miles from L.A.’s hot beaches, or I take the scenic, winding road over to Thousand Oaks and get on the Ventura freeway to drive back to L.A. Sometimes at night I visit one of the clubs on the Strip or drive to Marina del Rey for a seafood dinner in a dockside restaurant.
Cheerio is probably gone now. The hotel is probably gone, too. But all these years later, the taste of a bourbon on the rocks takes me to Santa Monica -- to that amazing glass elevator and those great steaks at Cheerio.
The aroma of freshly made gingerbread drifts by and I’m five years old sitting at my grandmother’s kitchen table. A whiff of “Coppertone” and I feel beach sand under my feet, salt spray and sunshine on my skin. I rarely drink bourbon, so I don’t know why the taste of bourbon on the rocks should mean anything to me, but it does. The taste always takes me to Los Angeles. Well, to Santa Monica, to be specific. When I think of Santa Monica, I think of riding in a glass elevator on the outside of a hotel. The elevator faces the Pacific Ocean, and if I look below to the other side of Ocean Avenue, I can see Cheerio, my favorite restaurant. I love their steaks. My room is on the top floor and the only transportation to the lobby is a glass-walled elevator on the front of the building. Every morning I leave my room and walk to the elevator. Daylight shines through a crack between the elevator doors, and I know that if the doors could open without the elevator being present, I would be looking into space, looking at a fearful drop to the street below. But when the doors open, the elevator is there.
I step into the elevator and my first view is a magnificent expanse of blue Pacific water. Looking right and left I see the outside of my hotel -- I am actually outside the building now -- and I feel somewhat like I am standing in space. As the elevator carries me gently to street level, the ocean slowly sinks behind buildings across the street that become taller with each second. I go to the parking garage and get into my rental car, and I drive to work. In the afternoon I return to the hotel, park in the hotel garage, and walk to the elevator. The elevator carries me up, and the buildings across the street fall away from me as the Pacific rises into view. The afternoon sun sits above the horizon. Sunlight sparkles across an impossibly large expanse of water. I go to my room, flop on the bed, turn on the TV, and unwind for an hour. Then I go across the street to Cheerio and order a steak, medium rare.
On weekends I drive to the observatory on Mount Wilson, marveling at the sight of snow on the ground
not that many miles from L.A.’s hot beaches, or I take the scenic, winding road over to Thousand Oaks and get on the Ventura freeway to drive back to L.A. Sometimes at night I visit one of the clubs on the Strip or drive to Marina del Rey for a seafood dinner in a dockside restaurant. Cheerio is probably gone now. The hotel is probably gone, too. But all these years later, the taste of a bourbon on the rocks takes me to Santa Monica -- to that amazing glass elevator and those great steaks at Cheerio.
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