My nose in Italy, it's not about meatballs.

Annick Goutal's Petit Cherie, the same bottle I bought in 2004.
A teeny car parked in a strange piazza, although I don't remember which one. On the corner of Via del Giglio and Via Faenza I think.

Above: Via Cosimo Ridolfi 2, 50129 Firenze, Toscana, Italy

Six and a half years ago, during the spring semester of my last year in college, I lived in the building above. Thanks for taking me back, google maps. I was 23 in this last semester (I spent 5 years in college, go UMASS!) and was looking forward to living in such a historic city, drinking cappuccinos, and going on "la passegiata" after dinner. I did all this, and more, but to my surprise, I did it mostly alone. Maybe it is because most of the Americans that chose to study abroad that semester were 4 years younger and usually drunk. (Underage in America means bottoms up abroad). All I remember were Uggs, lots of Uggs, hot off the press. And juicy couture sweat suits. (you know you had one) I befriended some Italians but my Italian was...eh.

So I strolled and I shopped, oooh did I shop! One day I decided it was time to purchase a perfume by which to remember Italy. I popped in to a perfume shop with a mission. Because I had never bought a real, grown-up perfume, I put my olfactory fate in the hands of the expert. I asked the shop girl to chose a perfume for me. If I were a perfume, what perfume would I be?

She took one look and decided that I was Petite Chérie by Annick Goutal. The perfumer describes the scent as being "reminiscent of a young girl's cheek that you want to lovingly kiss." Well, I don't know about all that, but... I wore this scent walking around a rainy Florence, writing, taking photographs, and listening to Aphex Twin on my first generation ipod. The time spent alone, in such a beautiful place, was pure indulgence. Smelling Petit Cherie now reminds me of the adventure that the 23 year old me started to madly crave. I guess if I had a signature scent of all time, this would be it. I buy new perfume every so often, but this is the stuff that grounds me, makes me feel like I'm walking on cobblestone streets again.

Petit Cherie Olfactory family: Fruity, floral, musky (pear, peach, musky rose, fresh cut grass, vanilla)

Fall in Chi Town: Whiskey 2 Ways

mmmm...meat and cheeeeeese.

Above: The competition.

Above: Home turf. Below: approaching the competition.

The folks I go to grad school with are wonderful. A few of them graciously hosted a whiskey tasting party this past weekend. Our party boasted over 10 species of bourbon, whiskey and the like. I took a quick survey of the spread, and, after mixing myself a Bulleit with Tea, I headed upstairs.

A delightful component of this party was the roof deck on which it was hosted. (See above, weep with envy.) As soon as I popped my face out of the door and on to the roof, all sorts of cermel-ey spicy deliciousness slapped me in the face and yelled, "FALL IS HERE!!" I followed my nose to an outdoor grill, which, instead of the expected burger, was keeping a sweet batch of whiskey cider perfectly warm.

I tried to remain loyal to the bounty of my comrades party, but I couldn't help myself. So I tried a cup. And then i tried another, just to be sure it was as tasty as the first one.

Growing up in Massachusetts, where apple picking is the go-to fall sport, the smell of cider means cold is near. Mixing it with such a wonderful night made the upcoming chilly weather feel just a little bit warmer.

Cheese ball.

The Air is Confused...

I thought this post was going to be about the smell of Indian summer, but I just learned that what I thought was an Indian summer turns out to be just a warm day in September. Oh well.

One reason I love being back at school is that I can walk around the city on a weekday morning and have the city all to my self. I embarked such a walk yesterday morning and the air was decidedly different. It was warm, but not quite summer like. The air was heavy, but not exactly humid. The scent was a mix of city sidewalk, warm brick, and city garden...Oh how I appreciate those 2 ft wide strips of planted anything in the middle of the city!

K's nose thinks...

"There's a particular mould which reminds me of my childhood. Especially when the scent blows in the cool air of a dark basement.

Wow. what kind of childhood did i have?"

What T's nose thinks...

I especially enjoy it when other people tell me what their noses think. I'll be honest, I don't get around to smelling many babies, but I do love the smell of my mom. T sent me this nose thought, along with this photo.

"I love the smell of babies after they shower and they are creamed, powdered and fresh.

I like sleeping with my nose tucked in my mom's armpit. She smells like a baby too.

There is something about that smell that makes you feel protected and there is a feeling of innocence attached to it."

Honky Tonk

Although I lived in Austin for two years, I was never motivated enough to go to the legendary dance hall, The Broken Spoke. Then I left Texas, which left a hole in my heart, and I started going back on a very regular basis. This past visit, I finally pulled on my boots, grabbed my favorite dance partner, and headed down to the honky-tonk.

The photo at the top is of a place at the Broken Spoke lovingly called the "tourist trap". So of course, we ventured in. Immediately upon entering, I could smell almost 50 years of history.... dust, old paper, dry wood, and the lingering smells of liquor and chicken fried steak. Photos everywhere of Dolly Parton, Willie Nelson, and Joe Ely & Kris Kristofferson. Even a token Rose McGowan photo. (?!?)

While current museums show photos of historical events, play relevant music, and even offer up a civil war shot glass or a "remember the Alamo" t shirt, The Broken Spoke offered up a different kind of souvenir: a hangover (come in S, M, L, XL), music to dance to well in to the night, and a musty old library that smelled homage to days gone by.

So sappy. I'll snap back next post I promise.

In closing...

Hot Glue

You hurt so good, hot glue gun. You are the reason I didn't get a single manicure between 1996 and, well, 2009.

The smell of hot glue, which is really just burning plastic, is the smell of getting things done. Something is the works, about to happen. In college, hot glue gun burns were like battle scars, and we were oddly proud of them. A friend of mine who was (and still is) a rower (is that what you call them?) would put some on his finger tips and show it off, like a little kid with chocolate all over his face. This latest run in with hot glue? Well, I just moved, and I just HAD to make new curtains. I do have a sewing machine, but prefer to make hems with a glue gun. These are as cheap as it gets: muslin and burlap.

I gotta go nurse this hot glue created blister on my finger, but I'll do it with a smile on my face.