There’s a small ritual I fall into whenever I land in a city that isn’t mine. Some people look for a bar; others hunt for the hotel gym like they’re afraid their muscles will evaporate overnight. Me—I look for a cigar lounge. A room with soft chairs, dim corners, and enough wood grain to remind me that the world still has textures.
Travel unsettles you just enough to make your senses useful again. Streets you haven’t memorized, faces that don’t recognize you, the mild loneliness that follows you like a misplaced shadow. A good lounge can straighten all that out, at least temporarily. It gives you a place to sit still in a world you’re usually rushing through.
Finding one is part instinct, part luck. You walk, you wander, you trust that some place with a well-worn sign is waiting for you—maybe tucked between a barber shop and a bar where the jukebox hasn’t been updated since the Clinton administration. Inside, you’ll often find the same characters, no matter the region: the retired guy who smokes like he’s holding court, the young professional pretending he’s not impressed by anything, the lone woman with a Lancero who clearly knows more about tobacco than anyone else in the room. You nod, they nod back, and the city feels a little less foreign.
There’s a particular pleasure in choosing a cigar when you’re away from home. At home, you reach for familiar favorites—your Le Bijou, your Oliva V, that one Broadleaf you’ve smoked so many times it’s practically a handshake. But on the road, you gamble. You let the house pick for you. Maybe the clerk hands you something Nicaraguan and earthy, the kind of cigar that settles in your chest like a warm stone. Maybe you end up with a Dominican that’s too mild, but you smoke it anyway because the point isn’t perfection. The point is being present.
Then there’s the moment—always the same, always different—when you sit back and the room exhales around you. The first draw is slow, thoughtful. The tension you didn’t realize you were carrying loosens a little. You listen to strangers talk about things you’ll never need to remember: football predictions, their cousin’s wedding, some new steakhouse that may or may not be worth its price. You’re not part of the conversation, but you’re not outside it either. You’re just there, and that’s enough.
Travel teaches you that place is more than geography. Sometimes it’s simply a chair in a quiet lounge, a drink sweating on the table, and a cigar burning barely faster than your heartbeat. A small human moment, shared with people who don’t know your name and don’t need to.
Eventually you leave. You step back out into the city—whatever its size, whatever its weather—and it no longer feels like you’re visiting. The walk back to the hotel is easier. You’ve carved out a tiny claim of belonging, the way campfire smoke rises into the pines, carrying a moment that won’t be repeated.
And tomorrow, if the workday runs long or the city wears you down, you’ll have a place to return to. A red-glowing ember in the dark. A little proof that no matter where you go, you can still find a room that feels like yours.