I can be in my Turkish neighborhood, minding my own business, and a smell will waft through that transports me instantly to the swing set at the park next to my elementary school. Without warning, my heart will ache for five minutes on the merry-go-round. Or I can be in Morocco, swapping memories of late-night college shenanigans, and I’ll crave a midnight run for chips and queso more than I can stand it.
