A Something Fantastic
London with Mom; plus, a new episode of the pod
I have returned from London and am here to report that even though the empire is shaky, and the Tories a disaster, there is something fantastic happening in the city. A “something fantastic” that may prove to be the most memorable part of my trip.
I traveled to London with my mother who, at 68, set her beautifully manicured toes outside of the country for the very first time (well, besides going to Toronto for a day, once). The weather in late June was spectacular. Gloriously sunny and, in a very British manner, mild and ebullient. I won’t detail the trip for you, reader, except to say that my mother was both an intrepid participant and a bemused spectator. Equal parts this is amazing and what the hell is happening? All in all, the trip was a success. The food was delicious, the sites historic, the sounds – if you are not a curmudgeon about English accents, like Amrita – charming. But it was the smell, one particular smell actually, that I will remember most.
Mom and I encountered it upon landing at London’s “other” airport, Gatwick. It was on the train into the city, too. An old woman wafted it our way in Clapham Junction. On a corner in Kensington, we noticed its soft plume coming from the general direction of a tween skateboarder. A shirtless construction worker lumbered near a construction site in its comforting haze. It was soft and pleasing. There was a floral component, I might guess. Maybe vanilla. Beyond this, I cannot attach any other descriptors because, just as soon as Mom and I registered the scent, it was gone in the city air, replaced by June’s flowering honeysuckle and apple blossoms. When we were lucky to catch another whiff, like two ravenous mice, we stood frozen with our noses in the air, sniffing in desperation; just a couple of scent addicts wanting one more hit of the good stuff. But, like many good things, it did not last. An infuriatingly temporal sensation that was here – just barely here – and then gone.
We encountered it in too many various situations, coming from too many disparate people, for it to be a perfume. We thought it might be a popular detergent or possibly a cleaner of some sort. I visited a Tesco, a British grocery chain, and casually sniffed at a few items on the cleaning aisle. Nothing close. The internet was no help, either. (You mean there is no Reddit thread about that smell in London?! No internet article about THE smell smelled from Bromley to Waltham Forest?) This made the mystery even more intoxicating. It’s thrilling when things are not discussed on the internet! We asked around but, alas, we never did solve the provenance of the scent. Even now, back in Brooklyn, we have no idea what it was. That’s alright though, maybe even better.
At the moment, the trip is still fresh with many memories: seeing Van Gogh’s sunflowers, so beloved by my recently deceased Aunt (my mother’s younger sister); enjoying a beer on the ferry boat up the Thames; hearing vicariously my niece’s transcendent experience at the Taylor Swift concert in Wembley Stadium; enjoying a shady bench with my mom in Hampstead Heath as we watched swimmers come and go from a watering hole. Some of these memories will fade, others will be forgotten altogether. My mom and I will remember different elements of the trip. Possibly recall certain facts differently. This is the reality of the recollecting mind: part fact, part fiction, influenced by time and emotion.
Except for this smelly newsletter and a few photos, I won't have much to remember it by. I had intended on keeping a travel journal but jetlag stole my ambition. Each night I would glance at the Kelly green notepad I had packed, willing myself to write. But after a few days went by and the pages remained empty, I packed the notepad away and called the endeavor a failure. There would be no travel journal. I would remember what I would remember and forget the smaller rest.
Thankfully though, I have this other memory that will last without the need of a travel journal. My scent memory of London with Mom. Scent is such a powerful memory maker that it pulls us back to places and people lodged in the deepest recesses of our minds. So deep, sometimes, that a scent viscerally reanimates a moment in our past as though we are living it all over again. It’s gnarly when that happens.
I don’t know if that will happen with the mysterious London scent. I suspect it will. It’s the perfect candidate for an out-of-the-blue moment years from now when I’ll catch a whiff and vaguely remember the 2 bedroom flat on Kempsford Gardens that mom and I shared with the lightning fast kettle and the M&S instant coffee. It will call to mind the trip I took with Mom just as she was readying herself to retire, opening up to a new phase in her life and in our relationship. The trip where she stumbled and fell face-first on the sidewalk, narrowly avoiding disastrous injury, scaring us both into the realization that good times and good health can be fleeting.
Unlike a travel journal, I won’t be able to refer back to this scent when I please. Instead, I’ll have to patiently wait to be delighted when, on some random day, the “something fantastic” pulls me back to London and to the time Mom and I chuckled the entire car ride from the airport after she took a little too much Xanax during our disastrously uncomfortable flight home. And then, the scent will dissipate and recede into nothingness, again. Here – just barely here – and then gone.
The indolence of midsummer is the best match for our newest podcast episode. This one’s a throwback to our back catalog — just us two, riffing on whatever our hearts desire, and wherever the wind blows. We consider where to stand at a concert; we yearn for a Gen Z selfie consultant; we revel in the pleasure of being RIGHT (dammit); and we give heartfelt advice to our younger selves.
The season ahead holds lots of GREAT interviews with special guests on different types of chosen family and community building (from radical friendship idioms to senior centers, to communal living, to nightlife). But before we head out to explore all that: a fun and fleeting reminder that it all comes down to friends…just being friends.
And, lastly, we DJ every Sunday night on Internet Community Radio brought to you by Electromagnetic Radio. Our show, Assisted Living, is genre agnostic and packed with new music. This past Sunday’s song picks, as always, can be found here.