As I sit here at dinner in LA, sniffing sea breeze and wood-fired meat, I’m thinking that in many ways, New York is defined by its smells.
Sometimes it’s a citywide smell, like the maple syrup incident of a few years ago. But every day, I can identify where I am based on the unique smell. Blindfold me and I’ll known if I’m in Chinatown or Battery Park or even (heaven forbid) Times Square.
So for those of you who don’t know, the 7th Avenue exit of Penn Station carries the heavy smell of pot. I don’t specifically know why, and explaining would require a long discussion about places like the Port Authority and other inexplicable New York experiences.
So when I stepped out of Penn Station to that hanging smell in the air yesterday evening, at first it seemed normal, then suddenly odd to hear the child behind me excitedly say to her mother:
“Mommy, it smells like Christmas!”
Interpret that as you wish.