Journey to a High and Lovely Place

It was raining over Paris. Our jet from New York glided above the layer of mist and polluting smoke, shaded in the dawning light from grey to yellowish brown. The colors of the city were muted, as if by an immense fallout of dust. On the long runways of Orly airport, the wetness outlined, as if on a map, the shapes of the oil slicks on the concrete. When the doors of our plane opened, there was nothing particularly Parisian about the smell of the smog. I used to boast that if I were to be deposited blindfolded in any one of the great gastronomic cities, I could identify it within a few seconds by sniffing the air and recognizing its particular smells from its kitchens and food shops. Now every city smells the same.