New York smells neutral to me. Sure, there are garbage smells and gasoline and diesel smells and chemical smells and musty, moldy smells—even the occasional whiff of ocean air smells or Hudson River estuary smells, but they are all smeared over a backdrop of no smell. Most of the time, my nose can clearly differentiate the surface smell from the background smell. I know that whatever scent I happen to be smelling at the moment is only temporary, and underneath it all is nothing.
Louisiana is different. The air there is so rich, so dense, so sweet, so heady with rich, moist earth and flowering, fertile green and thick sea, swamp, creek, bayou, and river that my senses are overwhelmed. It’s a gumbo, a stew of so many flavors so thick that it becomes something completely its own creation. And the people who live there don’t even notice it.
I visited there in Spring, and as soon as I stepped out of the airport into the parking lot—even though I was surrounded by cars and still on ground covered by concrete—the air smelled sweet—completely, totally sweet—so sweet I could taste it—and I couldn’t smell anything else underneath it—no neutral undertone. I could smell the gasoline fumes and exhaust of cars on top of it, but the undertone was just sweet—sweet as far as the nose could smell.
I commented on the sweetness of the air over and over on my trip, and invariably every person who actually lived in Louisiana said something like, “Really? It does? I didn’t notice.” Or they just ignored me, which I charitably took as meaning the same thing.
When I returned to New York, I missed that sweetness. I couldn’t detect it anywhere. The nothingness was everywhere, with the overlay of pollution and occasional whiffs of ocean. A friend from Louisiana suggested I plant rosemary and carry some in my pocket. She sent me pressed flowers from Louisiana. It all helped, but where was that deep, overwhelming sweetness?
Then the other day, I went to my favorite park on the East Side, Stuyvesant Cove Park, and there it was. As I walked along the East River, smelling the river smells, the automobile exhaust smells off the FDR, whiffs of body odor and garbage smells from the assortment of humans travelling through the space, and even the pleasant smells of earth and trees and plants, a rich, deep, bright sweetness seized my nose and stayed and filled me—it was the only smell. Some brilliant souls had planted beach roses in the park, and they had grown into big overflowing bushes of bright fuschia-red flowers whose scent had the power to fill the air and follow me and even become the undertone of the park.
Thank you to the creators, builders, and maintainers of Stuyvesant Cove Park—and of all the other parks in New York and their many spots of sensual richness and delight.
The thing about New York is that there are always possibilities for such moments. And Louisiana—well, as my friend said about the gardenia she sent me, “A tad overwhelming, like a lot of Southern things, eh?”
I will be travelling this summer. Look for more reports on the smells of the world!
Louisiana is different. The air there is so rich, so dense, so sweet, so heady with rich, moist earth and flowering, fertile green and thick sea, swamp, creek, bayou, and river that my senses are overwhelmed. It’s a gumbo, a stew of so many flavors so thick that it becomes something completely its own creation. And the people who live there don’t even notice it.
I visited there in Spring, and as soon as I stepped out of the airport into the parking lot—even though I was surrounded by cars and still on ground covered by concrete—the air smelled sweet—completely, totally sweet—so sweet I could taste it—and I couldn’t smell anything else underneath it—no neutral undertone. I could smell the gasoline fumes and exhaust of cars on top of it, but the undertone was just sweet—sweet as far as the nose could smell.
I commented on the sweetness of the air over and over on my trip, and invariably every person who actually lived in Louisiana said something like, “Really? It does? I didn’t notice.” Or they just ignored me, which I charitably took as meaning the same thing.
When I returned to New York, I missed that sweetness. I couldn’t detect it anywhere. The nothingness was everywhere, with the overlay of pollution and occasional whiffs of ocean. A friend from Louisiana suggested I plant rosemary and carry some in my pocket. She sent me pressed flowers from Louisiana. It all helped, but where was that deep, overwhelming sweetness?
Then the other day, I went to my favorite park on the East Side, Stuyvesant Cove Park, and there it was. As I walked along the East River, smelling the river smells, the automobile exhaust smells off the FDR, whiffs of body odor and garbage smells from the assortment of humans travelling through the space, and even the pleasant smells of earth and trees and plants, a rich, deep, bright sweetness seized my nose and stayed and filled me—it was the only smell. Some brilliant souls had planted beach roses in the park, and they had grown into big overflowing bushes of bright fuschia-red flowers whose scent had the power to fill the air and follow me and even become the undertone of the park.
Thank you to the creators, builders, and maintainers of Stuyvesant Cove Park—and of all the other parks in New York and their many spots of sensual richness and delight.
The thing about New York is that there are always possibilities for such moments. And Louisiana—well, as my friend said about the gardenia she sent me, “A tad overwhelming, like a lot of Southern things, eh?”
I will be travelling this summer. Look for more reports on the smells of the world!
