Strangely enough, I remember the first cigarette I ever smoked. S.H. was the culprit who got me started and I have been fighting with that addiction ever since then.
It was summer, during our extensive holidays, walking from my house in Vestagervej (Copenhagen, Denmark), down Ryvangs Allé, which was just behind our house, to Svanemøllen Station. Below the third-last tree on that alley, S. suddenly popped out a pack of cigarettes and said, “Give it a try! It’s fun!”. I did, and we did silly stuff like jumping up and down to feel the buzz. Childish. Dumb.Because my dad had a huge storage of cigarettes stashed away in the basement and around the house for regular events with many guests, I fed said addiction with unfiltered “Reval” cigarettes (a German brand) for months and I can still taste those nasty fags today. I then graduated first to Marlboro, then to Prince (Danish), then to red Cecils (Danish) and have been all over the map since.
I also stopped once for a whole year and more, but that’s another story.
Note: This memory basically jumped into my face when I watched “Flammen og Citronen” (2008), a Danish film focusing on two key figures of the Danish Resistance. Towards the end of the film, the two are arrested on above-mentioned Ryvangs Allé, not far from where I started smoking (actually, you can make the spot out in the distance). Amazing what kinds of suppressed memories can suddenly come to the forefront again, bright and clear as day.