THE WOUNDED CANARY by Bearnairdine Beaumont
When I think of my now long gone flying career I think of many delightful and exciting moments. Sometimes I daydream and a colourful movie starts reeling off in my mind: India, Africa, Bangkok, Hongkong, China, Thailand, Alaska, Australia, Europe, crew life, fun, sun, safaris and many other fantastic opportunities; from everywhere, from some lay-over, some memory pops up out of my past and I relive moments I spent in exotic places, visiting famous historical sights, trips to the country sides, soaking in the atmospheres, haggling at stalls, buying beautiful items; and I still remember the specific smells and typical odours each of them have.
Nothing evokes that tropical feeling quite like the intoxicating and unforgettable fragrances of indigenous flowers. The hot, sometimes steamy air is filled with scents streaming from herbs, spices and from flower markets full of orchids, frangipani and jasmin and streets lined with jacaranda trees; bazaars with food stalls invited with their spicy, delicious smelling foods; coffee bars beckoned with their aroma of freshly ground, moccha to sit for a while on wobbly bistro chairs and watch the hussle and bustle of life rushing by, while sipping the hot, very strong, very sweet and very black coffee. Closing my eyes all of these scenes are accompanied by a typical smell, a typical aroma, typical colours, typical sounds and typical flavours that are engraved in the memory cells of my brain.
When I think of my now long gone flying career I think of many delightful and exciting moments. Sometimes I daydream and a colourful movie starts reeling off in my mind: India, Africa, Bangkok, Hongkong, China, Thailand, Alaska, Australia, Europe, crew life, fun, sun, safaris and many other fantastic opportunities; from everywhere, from some lay-over, some memory pops up out of my past and I relive moments I spent in exotic places, visiting famous historical sights, trips to the country sides, soaking in the atmospheres, haggling at stalls, buying beautiful items; and I still remember the specific smells and typical odours each of them have.
Nothing evokes that tropical feeling quite like the intoxicating and unforgettable fragrances of indigenous flowers. The hot, sometimes steamy air is filled with scents streaming from herbs, spices and from flower markets full of orchids, frangipani and jasmin and streets lined with jacaranda trees; bazaars with food stalls invited with their spicy, delicious smelling foods; coffee bars beckoned with their aroma of freshly ground, moccha to sit for a while on wobbly bistro chairs and watch the hussle and bustle of life rushing by, while sipping the hot, very strong, very sweet and very black coffee. Closing my eyes all of these scenes are accompanied by a typical smell, a typical aroma, typical colours, typical sounds and typical flavours that are engraved in the memory cells of my brain.
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