Scents of summer

Alleyways aren't usually associated with nice smells. Generally, they're where the less pleasant odors of urban life end up - garbage, car exhaust, dump water, homeless people. The sad realities of high-density living that we don't want seen on our pristine streets.

And yet, the alleyway on my street in Chicago has the most amazing smell on summer evenings. The wood of people's back staircases, warmed from a whole day of sun, releasing its organic perfume. The savory smells of cooking, of smoked meat, as everyone breaks out their grills and slow-smokers. The spicy-sweet smell of pipe tobacco, the pungent citronella of candles burnt on patios. The delicate perfume of plants and flowers, released into the lovely dusk to mingle with the laughter and clink of glasses that lingers on the still air.

Rain, too, brings its own smell here; different from the cool crisp drizzles in the Pacific Northwest, or the overwhelming monsoons of the desert. Here, the rain brings a loamy sort of scent, warm and humid and vital, even as it washes away the dust and general grime of the environment.

Grow, that scent says. There is water here. It's warm and green; the soil is rich. Live. Thrive.

This is a good place to be.