I remember the rain in Leiden, flowing horizontally as it sometimes does in Holland, the smell of warm stroopwaffeln ringing its rich buttery scent in the moisture on market days.

The rain in Rome smells of the desert sand it carries over from Africa, the verbena and myrtle in the garden insinuating their ways into my books, looking over my shoulder at the pages being turned.

This week in Paris, a thin drizzle tells of subway aromas; this old childhood memory woven out of rubber wheels and tar, unique in the world, bringing back to life the taste of the mint fondants my grand-mother used to buy from the vending machines on the platforms.

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