I rode the Metro to work - as I always do - this morning. I expected crowds, of course. The Pope is in town and the big mass is at the new Nationals Stadium. Right on my Metro line.
I even expected to see many sisters and brothers in formal habits - black mandarin collars, fitted waists, frock coat skirts, black habits with stiff white borders. Gaggles of them, excited to be attending this rare event.
What I was unprepared for was the scent.
Wow.
The scent that hit me as a group of black-clad brothers stepped on to the train was of heavily varnished pews, smoky incense, hymnals and candles. They brought to mind rituals performed in dark interiors, brass and ivory cloth and bells. Stained-glass, industrial carpet, water, flowers and marble. Distant laughter, gothic arches, stale, dry host sticking to the roof of my mouth, sweat-stained blouses, pleated skirts, saddle shoes. Boredom. Impressions from the past rushing over me and then away again. They say memory and scent are intimately linked. They are right.
I am reminded of three Demeter colognes I ordered years ago, scent unsmelled, off the Web simply because of their names: Funeral Home, Holy Water, and Holy Smoke. They sit atop my Last Rites kit on a shelf above the television, remembered for a little while only to be forgotten again, blending back into the scenery.
( 04:45 EH | urban living. )