Nostalgia

Posted on 26 Nov 2013 @ 11:23pm by Lieutenant Olsam Mott
Edited on on 26 Nov 2013 @ 11:27pm

751 words; about a 4 minute read

Mission: Episode 04 - Exodus
Location: Crecy-la-Chapelle, France, Earth
Timeline: MD 06 - 1400 hrs

[ON]

Olsam beamed when the train eased into the Gare de Crecy-la-Chapelle, the station serving the small French village that the Bolian doctor had inexplicably decided to call home. Quiet, friendly and a mere 40 kilometers from the Paris medical complex where he rented an office, the village suited him nicely. Despite the familiarity of the place, he just wasn't nearly as nostalgic as his human friends from the Odyssey who had spent the last several weeks recalling memories of hearth and home and who right now must be experiencing the heady feeling of arriving in their own element after three years in deep space; however, he did have to admit there was a certain feeling of rightness that came from arriving at the train station.

The feelings of familiarity intensified as he moved down the platform to cross Rue de Bouleurs and follow signs labelled "Crecy-la-Chapelle Centre," guiding him into the village proper along the same route he'd taken hundreds of times before. But at the corner with Avenue Charles de Gaulle, the municipal government had installed new flower planters that brought him up short. Something new? Yet to be fair it had been three years since he'd set foot on the corner; things were bound to change even in a place with such an ancient and storied history as Crecy-la-Chapelle. Brilliant snapdragons and pansies were desperately clinging to life in the planters despite the encroaching winter chill and while neither flower was particularly fragrant Olsam did enjoy the sensation as the petals brushed his nose when he bent down to better inspect them. It reminded him that he was once again back on a planet and not rocketing through space at warp speed.

A blue hand reached out to pluck a pink snapdragon as a memento to carry home but at the last minute pulled back. A small plaque had been installed on each of the planters, discouraging people from taking the flowers "par ordre du maire" (by order of the mayor).

Olsam snorted at the plaque, straightened up, grabbed at nonexistent lapels and did his best mayoral impression while holding his nose in the air. "S'il vous plait, monsieur. Par ordre du maire. Il est...tres grave." He spoke the last with gravitas, furrowing his brow as if to emphasize the seriousness of the mayoral decree. Fearing the proximity of town hall might mean the actual mayor was about, Olsam picked up his bags, hurried along down the sidewalk, and left Faux Maire Olsam Mott behind.

The municipal communications hub, two cafes, bank and flower shop all seemed to be suitably intact but Olsam gave only hasty waves to the shop owners, all of whom were well-acquainted with the village's only blue resident, and suddenly picked up the pace. His stomach was practically roaring at him, causing Olsam to shut his eyes momentarily to concentrate on blocking out the sensation and allowing his memory to guide him down the sidewalk.

Oh, they had been so sinfully sweet and wickedly delicious - damn those macarons! But of course his earlier indulgence in a small box of macaron fleur d'oranger at the patisserie in the Paris train station was proving to be the mistake he'd known it ultimately would be. Immediately transitioning from three years of replicated meals to the extravagance of French pastries was more than enough to set off the often tempestuous Bolian digestive system.

After hurtling headlong across the old stone bridge running over a channel of the River Grand Morin, onto Rue du General Leclerc, and beneath the shadow of the village's 19th-century belfry, Olsam's apartment finally - mercifully - came into view above the restaurant that boasted of pizza cooked in a special wood fired grill.

The flashy, garish red color of the apartment shutters above him seemed to match his own personal red alert as he desperately fumbled with the keypad standing between him and relief. Olsam abandoned his small luggage and made a mad dash up the stairs, which felt like they spiraled into nothingness for at least two and three thousand kilometers before finally ending at his front door.

Olsam crossed the threshold and dashed across the living room toward deliverance. Later he would realize that it was there in that moment - in renewing that deep, sacred bond between Bolian and personal waste extraction unit - that he came to fully understand and appreciate the very human concept of nostalgia.

[OFF]

Lieutenant (JG) Olsam Mott, M.D.
Starfleet Medical Corps
VM-899-6519

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