When I drive home, my nose tells me as much as my ears or eyes. There is a spot near the airport that almost always smells of bread or chocolate cookies.
There is a long section where fennel gives way to brackish oyster smells of the bay. But not always; you can know if it’s high tide or low if the fennel changes into ocean, or if it merely fades into pavement again.
There are two places where holding my breath is required; recycling plants fill my nostrils with death and decay.
Sometimes there is cut grass or dry hay, depending on the wind. Newly poured concrete or gears burning are common across the four lane road.
I wonder what the world is like for the people who drive sealed tightly all season round, replacing air conditioning with the heater as the nights grow long and their commute is in darkness. Do they love the earth they drive on? Does their animal self slumber, nestled in its technology shell?
Or am I the odd one, slightly dangerous and likely to take flight across lanes, started by the scent of a brewery and friction burnt tires? Do I let too much in?