I love the smell of orange blossoms. In the absence of orange blossoms, I can always conjure the fragrance in my head. And sure, I can grab a bottle of conditioner at Target any time I want, but it’s not nearly as intense as the orange blossoms were in Glendale, Arizona.
Somewhere around 1986, my friend Jeff acquired an old Moto Guzzi motorcycle from his brother-in-law. As much as operating a motorcycle excited me, riding one as a passenger did not. But Jeff’s enthusiasm wore me down and I climbed on the back despite my misgivings about not being in control of the machine. As soon as we took off down his street, I regretted my decision. I didn’t even know where to hold on. If I were attracted to Jeff in a romantic way, I would have immediately thrown my arms around him. That was not the case, so I searched in vain for some kind of handle, and eventually settled on grasping the taillight arms with four fingers on each side.
That worked fine at 25 mph on a straight-as-an-arrow suburban street (yes, that’s also a metaphor), but as soon as we had to turn, I panicked. Having never ridden on a motorcycle before, my first inclination was to lean away from the direction of the turn and clench every muscle in my body from my pinkie toe to my left temple.
As a Mandalorian would put it, “That is not the way.”
We pitched wildly and my fear increased exponentially as Jeff quickly skidded the bike up to the sidewalk.
“Are you okay back there?” he asked.
I exclaimed that no, I was not okay, and maybe this was a bad idea. Having not ever actually seen Jeff operate a motorcycle, I couldn’t be sure who was messing up — him or me. Then he explained that I was supposed to lean into the turn, not away from it. Ever the adventurist, I decided to give it another shot. I was only 15, I could probably bounce back from anything, and even if I died, it would at least be an exciting ending. I pictured other kids at my school weeping over my coffin, whispering, “What an adventurous, generous, talented, intelligent soul.” A win-win.
We took off again, and drove to the Cine Capri theater to see some movie that I have now forgotten because of the Moto Guzzi transportation drama. When we left, we did so in heavy, very slow traffic, which at least made the ride back less anxious. As the sun began to set, Jeff made an suggestion.
“Hey, my brother told me how you can get into the orchards on Bell Road.”
“Um, what?”
“Let’s go check it out!”
By this time I had become somewhat acclimated to being a motorcycle passenger, so the ride to the orchard wasn’t bad. The sun had set, the air was cooling, there wasn’t much traffic, and the smoothness of the newly asphalted streets made everything feel calmer. Suddenly, Jeff made a hard left into what looked like… nothing.
We bounced over a curb and descended into blackness. I leaned around to try and see what was in front of us, but I could only make out black blobs and a white flash that looked like “No Trespassing.” Jeff weaved between what I started to make out as rows of trees. Then it it me.
If you’ve ever smelled orange blossoms, you probably had one of two reactions; this is too much for me or this is absolute heaven and I want to smell this for the rest of my life. Mine was the second. We rode quietly through the orchard,the only sound the purring of the Moto Guzzi. Orange blossom fragrance wrapped itself around my head and enveloped me in the kind of sweetness that could instantly turn cloying but somehow maintains its breath of flowery delicacy. It was such a high that I let go of the bike and stretched my arms out to the side as we flew through the trees. It was probably only five minutes, but it felt like going to another planet and back.
Jeff dropped me at home about fifteen minutes later. Although I’ve driven motorcycles since, I’ve never gotten the hang of being a motorcycle passenger. But to this day whenever I smell orange blossoms, I feel like I’ve spread out my arms and I’m flying through an orchard.
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