My day through smells:
This morning when I put on my gloves they smelled like the cinnamon I used to doctor my vin chaud last night.
Walking to the metro I passed a woman who smelled like my first French teacher, Madame.
Bread was baking at the boulangerie I went to for lunch - the kind that makes you sure the crust will melt in your mouth before you taste it.
Grass growing in the field by my house from which I can see les Invalides.
The metro. I won't describe that in detail.
A stolen squirt of a perfume with a red label from an Artisan Parfumeur display.
The pithy orange I peeled this afternoon.
A yellow-spraying flower called mimosa in French is my new favorite. I always stop to smell it at flower shops. It smells sweet.
The siren song of rotisserie chicken slowly turning in its heater on the sidewalk outside the traiteur called out to me at snack time.
Chlorine from the swimming pool. It smells the same in every language.
My apartment smells like my host mother's smooth cigarette smoke again, because she's back from vacation.
Now I smell like my lavender-honey soap and being tucked warmly into bed.
Hoping for lavender-honey scented dreams,
Maria
This morning when I put on my gloves they smelled like the cinnamon I used to doctor my vin chaud last night.
Walking to the metro I passed a woman who smelled like my first French teacher, Madame.
Bread was baking at the boulangerie I went to for lunch - the kind that makes you sure the crust will melt in your mouth before you taste it.
Grass growing in the field by my house from which I can see les Invalides.
The metro. I won't describe that in detail.
A stolen squirt of a perfume with a red label from an Artisan Parfumeur display.
The pithy orange I peeled this afternoon.
A yellow-spraying flower called mimosa in French is my new favorite. I always stop to smell it at flower shops. It smells sweet.
The siren song of rotisserie chicken slowly turning in its heater on the sidewalk outside the traiteur called out to me at snack time.
Chlorine from the swimming pool. It smells the same in every language.
My apartment smells like my host mother's smooth cigarette smoke again, because she's back from vacation.
Now I smell like my lavender-honey soap and being tucked warmly into bed.
Hoping for lavender-honey scented dreams,
Maria
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