fern furling, unfurling
On Monday, I returned from what was probably the second-best-smelling vacation of my life (a trip to Zanzibar tops the list— the place, in my experience so far, is unrivaled in terms of sheer smell-quantity and intensity). This trip was to a small island off the coast of Maine, and it was with a bunch of people I love, and it smelled unbelievable. So good, in fact, that I found myself telling myself (more than once!): reign it in, weirdo, these people do not need to hear you say yet again that it smells SO AMAZING here. But it did! Even toning the nosy down a bit, I do believe I made my husband stick his nose into at least three walls: "Smell this wall!" (old cedar, years of salt air). "Now smell this wall!" (newer cedar, fresh as a clean sheet). "What about this wall?!" (maybe not even cedar, and I'm talking to myself by this point).
A little bit of what else it smelled like, so I can remember:
summer camp (sleeping bags; closets unopened through winter months; the tiniest bit of moldering in the wall, but the beautiful kind—can something moldering also be fresh? In saltwater air, I think it can be.); wild beach roses; fiddlehead ferns (I have only ever smelled these when they're curled up tight and frying in a pan, not when they're neon green and neon smelling, unfurling upwards and vibrating some bright scent unlike anything I've ever smelled before); cedar (walls old and new, trees, piers); new board game box; screened-in porch; damp towel; sailboat; smoke; Basil gas; lemon; Play-Doh; bowls of melted butter on lobster night; boiled eggs; hot toddies; fish curry; wine breath; garlic-bomb croutons; golden roasting marshmallows and outdoor fireplace; smoke; cool granite; rubber boots; assorted piney smells; and saltwater. Saltwater on skin, in hair, in sheets, in air. Everywhere.
what does fog smell like?