Terroir.
Smell is so deeply entwined with location, as much as experience or person. I'm finally home from a stint of traveling, and am reflecting on my olfactory experiences of each place.
Pennsylvania smelled of trucks and metal and farmland, with city nuances and hard work. Something fried.
Georgia smelled of crepe myrtle, southern magnolia soaked in rain, distant fruity flowers, and occasionally someone's block party (incense, weed, booze and a cast iron smoker).
Ptown is a rainbow of smells from the undressed well fed streets to the brine soaked jetty, the rocky path of liberation always flaunts a rising tide. Palo Santo anoints the people outside a posh shop, while a clutter of green plants provide breathing space. Buttered lobster, orange garnished bourbon, and the overgrown Concord grapes fat with fruits, crawling hopefully along the power lines above the pedicab.
The glassy windows of a vintage boutique reveals antique Shalimar flacons that still smell iconic.
