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It’s strange: some of my most fun cologne memories have to do with my friend Chris, who doesn’t even wear the stuff. The first two happened in the summer he first lived in San Francisco. He was part of some do-good mission that I never quite understood (Greenlining perhaps? Or was that Suzie? I don’t know… I understood as much about their jobs as they do about mine. Our friendships are such that work talk is gloriously omitted.) On that first visit to San Francisco, I decided to save some money and stay with Chris at his co-op, which was a mistake even in my early twenties. The long line of fraternities leading up to his place culminated in the shabby worse-for-wear building that housed his little room. The skunky smell of pot pervaded the entire place. Not that I minded in the least – I was more repelled by the unkempt nature of the surroundings, including its denizens, and the screeching that accompanied their mid-day fucking or murder scene – we could never be sure which it was.

Luckily, we didn’t spend much time in that space. I wanted to see the city, not some ramshackle pot-house near Berkeley. Chris left early the next day for work, while I slept in a bit until the noises of a strange place rustled me into alertness. I boarded the BART and made my way to Union Square. Chris had some more work to do and would meet up for cocktails and dinner later that afternoon. Now that I was back in civilization, and on firmer footing in familiar retail territory, I could find my own way.

Summer in San Francisco is usually cooler and more pleasant than summer in New York. Still, the days held their sun and their heat, and every city seems to store up its own inferno within the sidewalks and streets of cement and stone. On that afternoon, I went shop to air-conditioned shop, trying out clothing and shoes, both escaping from and celebrating the summer that was at hand.

A window display of ties and underwear drew me into Macy’s – a daunting department store for the uninitiated – a playground for me. I found three ties on a huge sale, and they hang in my closet to this very day, favorites for their style as much as for the memory they evoke.

Passing by the cologne counter, I was taken in by a new Issey Miyake’s Summer fragrance – big on citrus, and light and refreshing in every way. It was an antidote to the heavy patchouli and pot combination that weighed down the heat of a summer day in San Francisco. I tried some on and immediately fell in love. It was housed in a tall, slim container of green glass, and in those vintage days of being able to bring liquids in your carry-on I purchased a bottle. I wore it for the rest of the trip, including that afternoon’s meet-up with Chris in the Union Square Fairmont.

Prior to its renovation, the hotel lobby was a sky-high-ceilinged affair of rich woods and ornate furniture. With its high windows and sprawling scale, it was a magnificent room which would, we discovered years later, be sinfully renovated into a ghost of its former self. Back then, it was a beauty, and the perfect backdrop for a meeting of relatively new friends. Though we had gone to Puerto Rico together, I still didn’t really know Chris yet. But on that day, over a margarita and a Midori sour (don’t judge our younger selves) we forged the first bonds of a friendship that would inform and embolden the rest of our lives.

We sat in that magnificent room, looking out at the city and ruminating on all that two guys in their early-twenties could ruminate on, and in between the laughter and contemplation, the stories shared and learned, we found a certain solace there.

We meandered around Union Square in slightly tipsy fashion before finding a place for dinner, and just being in the company of a straight guy who accepted me for who I was cemented the happiness of that moment. It also gave me a sense of self-worth in ways that my own family couldn’t supply. It wasn’t that they ever maliciously withheld that, they just didn’t know how. For being there when others weren’t, Chris became a surrogate brother to me; I will always be grateful for that.

I would return to San Francisco a few weeks later, to close out that summer in surprise fashion, and on that trip a more light-hearted and frivolous cologne memory was made. A few blocks away from where Chris worked was a Ross store – and if you have the pleasure of not knowing what that kind of retail abomination is, consider yourself blessed. Think of it as a cross between Kmart, Walmart and Marshall’s, with a dash of the worst of Burlington Coat Factory thrown in for bad measure. I don’t know what brought us into the store, but I’m willing to bet it was Chris. We didn’t make it far. I stopped us at the entry cologne counter, where the saddest selection of Curve and Cool Water assembled in discounted dourness. After seeing that, I was done, but Chris was entranced by the young woman behind the counter, and in true, dedicated wing-man form, I stepped up and started sampling colognes. For the most part, I’m the shy guy, especially when compared to Chris, who will talk to any and everyone except the lady who catches his eye. At such times I have to be the one who initiates and keeps the conversation going, which is what I did on this day.

We had a quick side conversation and he told me to just buy something so they could keep talking. I balked slightly, but he was adamant, and in a moment of sheer stupidity/loyalty, I asked her for a small bottle of Cool Water – the absolute least of the evils on hand, considering their featured line of Brut – and quickly purchased it before anyone could see. (My only hope is that the gods of fine fragrance know my heart and realize, in my mortification, how sorry I am. In my defense, I never wore any of it.)

The funniest part in all this was how quickly we moved from insult to injury: Chris never took the next step to get the woman’s phone number. I stood in the doorway of a Ross’s ‘Dress For Less’ store with a goddamn bottle of Cool Water in my bag, and nothing to show for it but a fruitless exercise of embarrassment and shame, and a hilarious memory that we quickly added to the ever-growing bank of such hindsightful joys.

I’ll save our third fragrance memory – a smoky, peppery scent found in the fall at the Standard – for a more seasonally appropriate time… For now, I’m basking in the glow of Issey Miyake’s ‘Yuzu’ scent – an updated version of that long-ago summer scent from San Francisco – and smiling at the way we used to be.