An editor reviewing my novel manuscript asked whether I might include a smidgen more variety in my use of sensory details. I tend to engage with life visually, like scenes in a movie, and must remember that we humans need all of our senses satisfied.
A curious surprise surfaced in a notebook when I set to work on revisions, like a postcard from the Universe: jottings I’d made last spring and then forgotten. They record what my senses encountered as I hurried through alleyways in a small German town one rainy day.
Perhaps it was the confinement of those narrow spaces immersing me in shadows and light that made everything seem so pronounced and strong that I was moved to sketch it down from fresh memory the moment I was inside a warm café.
Maybe, as sensing and comprehending beings, we need a scale of manageable size in which to experience what we encounter, like the pathways I navigated on my way to these rediscovered impressions:
When she stopped for me at the crosswalk, it felt like a rabbit-hole of role-reversal. SHE was the one on the red, four-wheeled scooter with its sticker that grants parking and other privileges to those traveling through life with disability.
Her nod was authoritative as she waved me across, adjusting the strap on her helmet while she waited. When I took too long in my confused indecision, she squeezed a horn that played bars of a Brahms lullaby. Teasing this laggard, perhaps?
A long-haul lorry slowed and panted behind her like a smokestack. I scurried across, a startled chicken, and heard her hoarse cackle — a smoker’s. Not unkind, but unquestionably satisfied. Her scooter’s motor was a roar, then a whir, then a faint whine as she sped away, lumbering lorry in close pursuit.
Enveloped by a cobble-stoned alley, I was greeted by tinkling piano scales, nearly machine-like in their precision. They grew louder when I neared the open window that was letting them escape. I reached the house as a steel-haired man arrived from the opposite direction carrying a sewing machine under one arm.
When he unlocked the door, a face-full of frying-onions fragrance blasted out at us so forcefully, I was sure I’d never smell anything else again. My mouth watered instantly. Even the insistent piano sounds, louder, now, seemed muted by this aroma.
It followed me past three more doorways before a thin ozone of rain on cobblestones replaced it. The drops gradually grew larger and louder as the speed of their fall increased.
The piano was having the last word as the café door shut behind me.
My glasses steamed up over a bakery case lying in wait, crammed with sweet temptation, inescapable as a huge, friendly dog.
“Why, yes, a slice of that warm strudel WOULD be lovely with my coffee, thank you.”