The City Smell
Winter was hard this year. It was my first full winter this far north, and I wasn't prepared for:
- Months of real, genuine, cold weather
- The difficulty of commuting in ice and snow
- 2.65 minutes of sunlight on average each day
- Not being to open my balcony door because Beira forbade it
The worst part of 1-4 was 1, 2, 3, and 4 at the same time. I am not a critic of most winters; I cherished the few weeks of marshmallow-white bliss that I received where I grew up further south, and still romanticize winter to this moment. Hell, this past winter only served to strengthen my resolve to love the next one. I will not be defeated!
As much as I wish I could repaint a better picture, above all I prefer authenticity: last winter, authentically, sucked. That only served to make the first few glimpses of spring almost euphoric. Even though the weather has been bizarre recently, I have found some wonder to behold in the layers of mud and newborn flies.
See, on those first few days, when the warm front finally arrives, there is an unmistakable smell that permeates the streets of any metropolitan area. I love smells, so when they make themselves apparent and unique, I almost always end up writing about them. This smell evoked prose: it has subtle notes of rubber, rain, wood, and asphalt. On its face those are an odd cacophony of smells that aren't altogether pleasant, but in combination with real, actual, warm, cradling sunlight and the first reheated outside breaths you are able to take in months, it becomes nostalgic.
If you live in an area featuring lots of cars and roads with smatterings of flora, I recommend you take a prolonged sniff next time you are at ground level. If the sky is clear, look up at the blue and know: we are, for a moment, uniquely daydreaming the same dream of urban scent. We are united in sense.