Sure, "Man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upwards" and all that rot. But as those niggling sparks ascend, so too does the smoke. And it is in the smoking that solace can be found. The drudgery of work, the idiocy of our fellow man, the repetitive lunacy of lifeit all fades from mind when one's head is wreathed in a cloud from, say, a Svendborg 305 well-packed with a heady Balkan blend. We'll have no truck with common cigarettes, available at taverns and "Git <\#213>n' Go's" aplenty. Our spiritual aid comes in the form of a lifelong boon companion: a hand-carved pipe filled with fine tobacco. Nording, Bentley, Jobey, Savinelli, Ser Jacopo, even the venerable Dunhillpipes of all shapes and sizes reside in Jon's glass cases and hang from pegs on the wall. The staff, sensitive to the personal relationship between smoker and pipe, will willingly allow you behind the counter to measure the heft of a bulldog, caress the gentle arc of a churchwarden's stem. When you find the one that rests in your hand with the casual ease of an old lover, then Jon's staff proffers advice for easing the break-in period: Smoke carefully; go slowly; if things get too hot, set her aside until she cools off. Indeed, these are cautions to be heeded in all areas of life.