Smelly Business

We all have a smell. Our partners, pets, and perverts know it - yet we must remain forever ignorant of something so characteristic. A signature we don't know how to write.

Coming back to my storage unit and sorting through clothing I hadn't worn in eight months, I was hit by an unfamiliar scent: my own. Or at least that of the person I was before this trip.

Poetic, isn't it? Most likely, I was just smelling clean clothes for the first time in more than half a year. Enriching as this trip has been, I have not undergone any profound metamorphosis, though I have grown in subtle, meaningful ways. I'm not saying that travel can't be life changing, but I'm sick of travel bloggers getting raptured every time they see above-average latte art. 

Meanwhile, another odor had finally disappeared. For the last two years, Hobbes had always smelled of stale cigarette smoke, and ablutions of dirt, mud, and sand didn’t seem to have any effect. I didn't give it much attention, then one day I realized it was gone.

Several months later, I expressed dismay at my lack of transmutation to some other travelers, and they asked me how I could possibly know if I was still the same person. I narrowed my eyes skeptically, defeated yet unconvinced by this irrefutable proposition. I suppose significant change can be imperceptible given enough time. But can anything conceal true alchemy?

From San Francisco, I spent five days riding up the rainy coast, seeing family and friends along the way. After eight months of relentless novelty, it was nice to stock up on old memories. As Nicolas Bouvier wrote, "luggage like that doesn't take up much room."