Here is an assortment of smells, with a few other senses tossed in:
To me, the waft from a fromagerie is heaven, but some people might label its moist, pungent mold and aged milk smell as hell. Keeping cheese is an art the French call “affinage,” and a good cheese store has a basement with each cheese inspected regularly to see if it needs turned or painted or moved to a drier or wetter shelf. Fostering cheese is a real art, and a smelly one that no amount of Glade plug-ins could overcome. Not that you’d want them to.
Where I’m staying, church bells sound the quarter hour from 8 a.m. to 9 p.m. with a brisk one-two clang for every fifteen minutes past the hour. I love these bells. They tell me how long I’ve been in bed or if it’s time to think about lunch. Why don't we have more bells in the United States?
A special perfume lurks inside a warm, fresh croissant. Pull the tender-yet-flaky end from a croissant, and you’ll extract a buttery soft bite of the pastry’s innards at the same time. I know you want to plunge it straight into your mouth, but smell that buttery, yeasty crumb. It sure goes well with coffee.
The florist shop on the corner moves its inventory to the sidewalk during the day. On the way to the metro, I can smell the shelf of gardenias as I marvel at the 80-year-old potted grapevine and the table of goofy dahlias.
In a bar on a side street in Belleville, a man brings fresh cakes twice a week. He also brings his Jack Russell terrier, and the both of them sit at the end of the bar, one enjoying a beer, the other waiting for bits of dog biscuit. “Elle est very chouette,” the man says of his dog.
A hot bath with Chanel No. 5 bath oil is one of the best ways to end the day, especially if you’ve been walking for a good chunk of it.