bethofalltrades

They say that of all the senses, smell has the greatest ability to make us nostalgic. Musty, dying smells conjure up forgotten afternoons of playing in abandoned barns. I keep smelling "new toy" and remembering sitting in the front seat of my mom's Volkswagon Rabbit, tearing open the package of the She-Ra doll who had wings. I walked into David's theatre in P-town and all I could think about was perching in the third row at Crave rehearsals, mouth agape.

In the rows of boxes of complimentary coffees and teas here at the office, I found a lone Mango Ceylon teabag. As soon as the steaming water from the dusty watercooler hit it, the aroma of vanilla and something I can only characterize as "warmth" permeated the air.

Mango Ceylon is Kiva Han iced tea. Kiva Han. I treated that coffeeshop as my office for the better part of a year, holding meetings with actors and designers over tea. The Honors College gave me a stipend to spend a summer reading all about theatre in its loft-- well, theatre and psychology and hate crimes and life. It was a summer I spent learning, mostly about myself, that fell into a fall in which I had my meetings with an endless parade of the wonderful.

James, uncharacteristically relaxed as we watched aquaintences waiting in line for coffee. Sarahs H & P, each whiled away an hour with me talking different types of art. I first fell for Julie at a table tucked into a corner of Kiva Han and my advances were declined in the most charming and kind way there by the delightful Lizzie D. Tonya sketched me a blueprint of rape and mercy-killing as the bland blonde next to us grew more and more pale. I met Rachel for coffee there more times than I could count, chatting feminism, fat and all things intellectual, revelling. I took Julie Moreau there when she was freaked out and when a cup of tea didn't calm her we went back to my place and got stoned.

The bathroom. I knew Abby had arrived when I went into Kiva Han's bathroom and there were here lyrics on the wall-- and I hadn't written them. I loved that bathroom graffiti and I was saddened when the discourse grew nasty and someone took a sharpie and ruined all.

I close my eyes and I can see the table. My iced tea, two Sweet n Lows, lovingly prepared by the barista of XY chromosomes who always wore a skirt and usually had a bad attitude. The debris on the table-- a straw paper, two napkins soaked with the plastic glass's perspiration, an empty plate with oatmeal raisin cookie crumbs-- all arranged to best visually balance, because back then I still compulsively ordered trash. My blue Jansport backpack wedged under the table. At Kiva, you could leave your iPod on the table and go to the bathroom and no one would steal it.

I close my eyes and I see the place, with the often ridiculous art on the walls. I always secretly wanted a show at Kiva Han. I close my eyes and see a dozen people rotating in and out of the chair across from me. My office, except not, because I was no suit. I was queen, holding court.

I open my eyes and my tea is almost gone. It's in a green Rockefeller mug, not a plastic glass, and it's hot, not cold. I'm wearing slacks, not jeans, and I can't remember the last time I had a cookie. I no longer arrange debris on the tables of restaurants, unless I am very, very nervous. I haven't done theatre in a long time and I think I miss it. Friends have scattered and no one meets me at Kiva Han anymore.

I want to go to Kiva Han. I want to hold court and scribble on the bathroom wall and spend an entire afternoon getting refills on my Mango Ceylon iced tea and reading books from the library. I want to declare my love for someone over a carrot muffin. I want my art on Kiva's walls.

I am nostalgic. I blame my sense of smell.

Love,
Beth