Lavender

In my childhood, I visited the Berengaria Hotel high up in the mountains of the island of Cyprus in that magical sea known as the Mediterranean. The path that led to the entrance of the hotel was flanked with huge flowering lavender bushes which, combined with the wild sage and oregano that grew all around, produced a heady perfume. The image, and the scents, are forever etched in my memory. In those mountains, in a place called Prodromos, reached by some terrifying corkscrew roads, there were apple orchards and forests of fir, little waterfalls and streams so cold that bottles of soda were put in them to chill, and so clear and pure that you could drink all you wanted.

Many years later, in northern Spain, I was hit with a scent that took me all the way back to the Berengaria. Another pathway flanked by identical lavender bushes. I helped myself to some of the flowers and put them in my pocket to take home with me, a little piece of memory, sweet moments in an otherwise dismal childhood. Those are the moments I want to remember.

Today, I bought a little lavender plant. It's already fragrant and lovely, a little different from the Mediterranean lavender, perhaps not as intense.