Proust, noses, and places remembered
 

If you are, like me, well and truly tired of the sniping going on in a few active threads on this forum, here's a thread for your consideration: Both Proust and psychologists say that the sense of smell can carry memories more forcefully than any other sense, and there are moments when you catch a whiff of something that suddenly catapults you back in time to a place you'd long since forgotten -- and most often these are places you've travelled to and have strong associations with. <BR> <BR>For example, for some reason the smell of burnt toast on moist, cool air means New York City to me. Boxwood is Williamsburg. "Tabu" perfume (which, thank god, you don't find much any more) was a particularly raunchy diner in Los Angeles. <BR> <BR>You get the idea. Any contributions?

When I smell cotton candy, I think of obese people at amusement parks.

Okay, I give up. Go ahead, knock yourself out and make the US forum an ugly mud-wrestling ring. You must be so proud. And what incredible talent and wit.

<BR>Hey Colette: <BR> <BR>A whiff of cigar smoke reminds me of the third tier of Three Rivers Stadium in Pittsburgh, where my dad used to take me to Pirate games. <BR>A rather unpleasant one is the odor of roofing tar. It reminds me of my second-grade classroom. One spring, it took two months for the workers to cover the mall across the street. Ugh.

Hey Colette-Are you related to Dr. Elizabeth the shrink who wants to analyze us all? Why are you surprised at the reaction you have gotten to this post??

Colette, you posted an interesting thread idea, but you start it off by taking a swipe at others on the forum, and then you wonder why people take swipes back at you? Um, next time, just post your idea without first declaring it to be superior to other threads.

This is an interesting thread idea... <BR> <BR>There exists a certain spicy ramen-like smell that I cannot describe! I guess because humans get most of their sensory info from vision. Anyway, whenever I smell this, I am catapulted back to the streets of Tokyo and I am eight years old again (sigh). <BR> <BR>Ginger flowers or plumeria = my grandmothers house on the Big Island (double sigh).

Oh yeah - the smell of turpentine reminds me of my second grade art class.

Aw, come on, gee wizz, Colette, I didn't mean anything. I was just making a little joke. A little one-liner, that's all. You know, :)? Ba-da-boom, ba-da-bing? That sort of thing. Don't be mad. How about a little smile?

There is a very particular tobacco smell that reminds me of Paris, but I can't identify what specific brand it is. <BR> <BR>Roasted peanuts are Tiger Stadium (the old one), in Detroit. <BR> <BR>Lemons are me riding on back of a moped in Greece. <BR> <BR>Honeysuckle is my grandma's house. <BR> <BR>Lilacs are my backyard growing up. <BR> <BR>Cigars are my grandpa's wool coat. <BR> <BR>The smell of a freshly sharpened pencil always takes me back to my old elementary school. <BR> <BR>Incense puts me right back in the church we used to go to, the fourth pew on the left. <BR> <BR>I am always a little disconcerted when I smell popcorn anywhere but the movies (like at an amusement park) -- it never feels right: "What's this smell doing here? Oh, popcorn." <BR>

Was in the sleeper car of a train from WashDC to Chicago. Caught a whiff of something that suddenly put me back in Harvard Sq. 1967 in front of the MTA (as it was then) kiosk. Couldn't figure out WHAT had sent me warp-speed back to that time and place, but tried to figure out what I was smelling. Smokey. Sweet. Oh, yessss.......... the train police never came after whoever it was getting stoned in his little compartment. I spent the night looking out the train window but inhabiting Cambridge MA and the late 1960s.

There's a line from Kipling that I believe I'm correctly quoting -- <BR> <BR>"Scents are surer than sights or sounds <BR>To make your heartstrings crack."

Roses and fresh cool air= the Rose Parade in Pasadena. <BR>Cigar smoke= a Bears game in Soldier Field <BR>Dog poop= the first thaw in Chicago in Spring <BR>Lilies= my backyard <BR>Tomatoes=Italy <BR>Mothballs=my mother-in-law's house

Kelp at low tide on a rainy day always takes me back to my first visit to the North Sea (in the early 1950). It's a magic smell ("musk of the sea" I guess) that has lured me back to the ocean over and over again and is the reason why I now live on a saltwater shore.

alright, alright, I'll bite. The smell of leather reminds me of the seats in a vintage Jaguar. (The FRONT seat, thankyou!) Everytime I smell a new car with leather, I am taken back to that old Jag. Aramis.....anyone out there still use it? I can still catch it in a crowd....sort of the reverse of "Scent of a Woman", Eh? I know....nothing to do with travel.

For some reason, certain lake water reminds me of that damp, dark smell in the foyer at Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris.

Mint always reminds me of Morocco so I love smelling it. Really bad incense reminds me of that horrid stuff the priests uses to swing at you in those brass things on a chain during Lent. Cotton candy is a horrid smell to and reminds me of cheap traveling carnivals. <BR>My dog's breath reminds of the Lincoln Park Zoo.

For a true Proustian event you have to be transported back to the original experience as if you there, not just reminded. It has to do with the memory being stored and restored to you with purity, not contaminated with everything that has happened to you since the experience. Anyway, I have actually had the smell event in reverse - I saw a TV program on Delhi and when the scene moved to a crowded bus stop the sound of the engines and the voices suddenly filled my room with an overpowering smell of diesel - reaching out to my trip to Delhi some 15 years before. Very ephemeral but very, very real.

Correction for the high Priestess of Proust: <BR> <BR>When I smell certain lakewater, I AM ACTUALLY standing in the foyer of Notre Dame, soaking wet, in my tiny swimsuit, pissing off the French authorities who don't understand that I am in the middle of a true Proustian moment.

(1) Steamed cabbage puts me in the Parma, Ohio house of my 1st grade pal, Sharon Gabor. Her Grandma must have cooked cabbage every day of the week. (2) Fresh laundry blowing in the wind takes me to my Grandparents' yard on their farm in Nebraska (3) Just hearing the words "Northern Ireland" calls up the scent of coal fires burning and sending smoke up chimneys as I walked down sidewalks in Bangor (outside of Belfast) in December 1970.