From the edge of the deep green sea:

I brought up The Cure's album Wish for a short story project, and had trouble writing because of the assault of memories it brought with it. I had forgotten I used to listen to it while traveling. We're in the mid-90's, boys and girls, in a conglomerate of trips to festivals and English towns.  

The particular flavor of Gauloises and coffee. Little stores that sell mirrors shaped like moons and suns, and clothes impregnated with chemicals that make them stiff and weird. The all-pervasive smell of nag champa incense. Dingy, brownish floors and furniture in train station cafés. The smell of old cigarette smoke. Day-old cheese sandwiches and sour coffee from the counter. The energized fuzziness in your head after a night with very little sleep in a new place. Strangers on the road becoming familiar over the course of an evening. Dawn on another train station. Fast-forwarding past "Wendy Time" because what the hell, Robert. The ache in your shoulders after the too-heavy backpack. Sweet cider late at night in a place where you're really too young to get in. Walking in the streets of an unfamiliar town while the sky grows bright. The sensation that adventure is now, and it's vast.