I’ve been smoking cigars for two decades. I fell in love with the aroma when I walked into my first cigar lounge, Fair Oaks Cigars, in South Pasadena, California, when I was 21 years old. I remember my first stogie — Flor de las Antillas from My Father Cigars. During my early 20s and 30s, I smoked cigars religiously, at least five per week. I puffed alone in the living room, hours before getting ready to hit the town with friends. On my patio on a lazy Saturday afternoon. In the car during heavy traffic. On the rooftop lounge at the mid-high-rise building I lived in for a few years in downtown Los Angeles. Inside my loft — decked with concrete floors and walls, and exposed pipes — while watching pay-per-view boxing or a Dodgers game.
No matter the setting, smoking a cigar, to me, was the occasion. I never needed, nor do I need now, a reason to light up. It doesn’t matter if I smoke alone at a lounge or with friends on my patio; I love that, for an hour-plus, time slows down for me. Because smoking cigars can’t and shouldn’t be rushed. It’s not a cigarette. From the moment you light up to when you set down the final stub of a cigar, at least 45 minutes to an hour has passed, during which, if you’re like me, you made new friends, formed stronger bonds, and/or reflected on all that is great in your life.
