threatening because the gentleman seemed afraid that he didn ' t know what I was saying . I repeated the phrase sharply , pressing two fingers against my lips to illustrate . After a moment he clocked it . He began to explain that I was speaking Spanish but Valdemossans speak Catalan . I didn ' t care about his local trivia . Sod your language , I thought . Sod Chopin and George Sand and Salvador Dali and Picasso and the Spanish Civil War : where is the fucking tobacconist ?? He gestured to a small shop a little down the road and I had already stormed halfway there by the time I had given him my hasty thanks .
There it was : temple to all the gods of my addiction . Inside , the idols of them lined the walls : Gauloises , Rothmans , Marlboro , Camel , Lucky Strike . And another customer currently being served . My eyes drilled holes into the back of his head as he oscillated leisurely between brands . ' Hmm , I could take the superkings but , then ... Oh , I don ' t know . I like Chesterfield but maybe ... What do people smoke here ...?' I almost threw him out of the way as he idly turned away from the counter upon the conclusion of his languid business . Trembling , I placed my order and before I had even taken my change I had ripped the wrapper from the pack and pulled out that first , gorgeous , slender cigarette , its dappled filter like the golden tan of soon-to-depart beach boys , its smooth paper as milky white as the alabaster skin of speedo ' d new arrivals .
I took my change hurriedly and nearly fell over myself in my rush to get outside . I pressed the filter to my lips and touched a flame to the tobaccoey tip . Had a hundred tumours blossomed in my lungs at that precise moment it would have been worth it for the heavenly pleasure that flooded over me , filling me up , making my stomach dance galliards of delight . I wanted to smoke it every which way simultaneously . I wanted an inhalatory Karma Sutra with this scintillating wand of bliss . Every memory of pride and pleasure until that moment withered in comparison to the overwhelming sense of completion I felt at being reunited with my smoker self . He and I pressed ourselves together like long-separated lovers . I felt like Oscar Wilde gliding out through the gates of Reading Gaol . I felt like Nelson Mandela taking his first righteous breath of freedom .
After I had smoked six or seven more in quick succession I felt ready to carry on my day . I spent ten euros to look briefly round the Chopin cell , a commercialised husk of the room where Chopin had lived and worked , drained of any real interest by its velvet ropes and dead , framed scores . Recently free of my own self-imposed prison I felt more sharply than I otherwise might how ' cell ' was the right word for this tourist trap . I spent the rest of the afternoon contentedly puffing away as I dilly-dallied from restaurant to restaurant looking for somewhere I could smoke and eat tapas . I settled on an exorbitant place with
smokers ' manifesto 15