How a Cigar Should be Treated

That's an odd way to start a blog, but here we are.

What do I mean by "how a cigar should be treated"? Should we treat it with respect? Kindness? Generosity? Anger?

Not exactly.

Well, yes—we should respect a cigar in the sense that it is the product of artisanal agriculture, craftsmanship, and tradition. But when I talk about how a cigar should be treated, I'm referring less to how it's made and more to what it's for.

Allow me to explain.

Over the years I've met cigar veterans and neophytes alike. People brand new to the craft, and those who are well experienced.

Here's what happens; the newborns to the cigar world are, videlicet, curious about all the stuff I wanted to learn. The questions often lead to specific answers such as "which blend is that? what makes this tobacco unique? what makes this tobacco different from that?"

All valid questions..

Cigars. Cigars. Cigars.

For someone new to the hobby, that's exactly what should happen.

I was the same way.

[As a side note, Cano Ozgener, founder of CAO Cigars, followed a somewhat similar path. He started as a pipe maker before transitioning into cigars for both practical and personal reasons. But that's a story for another day.]

I've been smoking cigars for nearly twenty years. Over that time I've smoked just about everything—Cuban, Honduran, Dominican, Nicaraguan, Connecticut-wrapped, and plenty more. I've spent years studying every aspect of cigars: the technical side, the political debates, the industry controversies, the health discussions, and the endless arguments enthusiasts love to have.

At some point, however, I realized something.

I had unintentionally backed myself into a corner where I was becoming so focused on cigars that I was forgetting their true purpose.

The cigar isn't the point.

The experience is.

After all these years, I have a pretty good idea of what I enjoy smoking, and that's perfectly fine.

But today, when I buy a cigar, I'm no longer chasing an Ecuadorian Habano wrapper harvested during a specific season from a particular region of the country.

What interests me now is what happens while I'm smoking it.

I've come to believe that a cigar should be an extension of who you already are. The focus shifts from:

"I smoked this cigar."

to

"I shared laughs, stories, and memories with friends while smoking this cigar."

Do you see the difference?

One statement is cigar-centric.

The other is memory-centric.

At this stage of my life, I'm more interested in the people, places, and communities I encounter while enjoying a cigar than I am in dissecting every flavor note and tobacco characteristic. The cigar has become a companion to the experience rather than the experience itself.

It's still important, of course. A bad cigar can ruin a good evening.

But a great cigar cannot create a meaningful experience on its own.

The people can.

The place can.

The moment can.

The cigar simply helps frame it.

So the next time you light up, look up.

Put down the smartphone. Close the laptop.

Pay attention to what's happening around you.

Here's your homework assignment: visit your local cigar lounge, pick a cigar from the humidor, put your phone away, and strike up a conversation with someone you've never met before. Learn their name. Hear their story.

And if socializing isn't your thing, here's an alternative assignment.

Take a cigar, a cutter, and a lighter to a quiet place—a beach, a forest trail, a lakeside bench, wherever local laws permit. Bring a handwritten journal with you. Sit down, light your cigar, and pay attention to the world around you. Notice the sounds, the smells, the weather, and your thoughts.

Write about the experience.

Focus on the moment, not just the cigar.

Because in the end, the cigar isn't the destination.

It's the companion you bring along for the journey.