Something curious happened today. I was standing outside, smoking my pipe, when a young guy came up and asked — quite genuinely —
“What is that?”
I showed him the pipe, explained a bit, even let him smell the tobacco. It was obvious he had never seen a real pipe before.
For them, it’s like an artifact from another era — at best, something exotic; at worst, an incomprehensible ritual. They’re used to vapes, nicotine pouches, and sleek gadgets, not to an object that asks for care, contemplation, and a slower rhythm.
It’s a strange feeling, realizing that for newer generations, the pipe isn’t just rare — it’s almost forgotten.
In a way, the pipe has become the anti-symbol of modernity: a quiet embodiment of slowness, material presence, and reflection — everything that’s fading from everyday life.