Yesterday, after work, I went for a run around Jamaica Pond. Along the way, many smells jumped out at me: the damp woody tones of bark mulch, the soft perfume of new flowers unfurling from the earth. There was a whiff of deodorant. Cigarette smoke and sweat. A musty breath of pond water. Wet dog. Car exhaust. At one point, I smelled the sulfur-sweet scent of a fire, which reminded me suddenly of California, that dry, arid state where I lived amid a blazing spate of them back in 2008. But here in Boston? Perhaps it was simply a barbecue, lit to celebrate spring.
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