Transcript
Advertiser (0:00)
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Christina Kim (0:19)
Before we get started, a note to listeners that this episode includes exploration of racist material.
Narrator (0:29)
So the other day I was reading this book about the First Crusade. It's a moment in history that anyone who knows me knows I have long been obsessed with, and in one passage there was a detailed description of what the city of Antioch was like. Then there were details about the way the streets looked, the size of the citadel, how loud the central market was. But there was something noticeably missing. No description of what it smelled like. It was weird because I register a lot of thoughts and memories in my head through smells. I'm sure you do too. And I realized I almost never stopped to think about how or why I smell things like why does a rose smell like a rose? Would the people in medieval Antioch have described the smell of a rose the same way I do? Well, Christina Kim, a reporter and producer on the Throughline team, has been thinking about those kinds of questions a lot over the last last few years. The other day she even described smell as a superpower that allows us to time travel. Yeah, she went deep on some of the big questions about our sense of smell and ended up on this winding historical journey. And now you get to go on it too. Christina is going to take it from here.
Christina Kim (1:49)
Ever since I was a little girl, I've been enveloped by the smell of lemon, rosemary and spice spices. It's the smell of this Spanish perfume called Alvarez Gomez Agua de Colonia, the classic fragrance that's been made in Spain since 1912 that my grandmother, Mil Yaya and my mother have always worn. It's the smell of Maya sitting on the couch in Madrid with her legs crossed, wearing her kitten heel house slippers, right? Reminiscing about being a little bit wild, un poco travieza as she reaches over with her soft hand to give mine a squeeze. It's the smell of my mom running after me whenever I'm in my childhood home in California with a bottle of it, trying to spritz some over my head, a foos foos before we leave the house to smell fre and the smell of her reassuring hugs, which let me know I am never alone. The top note is crisp, sharp, like a Mediterranean lemon whose yellow hued brightness makes my nose tingle once I let the inhale get to my chest. I reach the fragrance's heart note, and it becomes more green and fresh. And finally, when my breath makes it all the way to my belly, the base note rounds everything together. It's like the umami part of the fragrance, this kind of fullness and richness that expands throughout my whole body like a soft hug. Like home. The act of smelling a perfume is like hearing a full orchestra. In order to actually smell it, your nose has to parse through thousands of different molecules, translate them, and then transmit it to your brain so that you can smell what you recognize as your favorite scent, be it a perfume or a rose. And that's just what has to happen to smell a single thing. The reality is that for most of us, our noses are parsing through a massive number of different odor molecules a day. And it's so easy to take this riot of smell for granted, unless it disappears. In the summer of 2022, I became one of the 15 million estimated people to have lost their sense of smell because of COVID The minute I noticed that I wasn't able to smell anything, I ran around from room to room, sniffing anything I could get my hands on. I went to the kitchen and opened a jar of peanut butter. Nothing. I took a spoonful of peanut butter and put it in my mouth. Instead of the sweet, salty, nutty flavor I expected, all I could sense was how it felt. A thick, flavorless paste sticking to my tongue and gums. Finally, I ran to my bedside table, where I kept my giant glass art deco bottle of Alvarez Gomez Agua de Colonia. I took a big breath, waiting for the fresh herbal scents to take over and make me feel better. But all that I inhaled was an empty void of what I knew was there, but I could no longer access. It felt like my tie to my mom and my grandmother was severed. After I gathered myself, I did what any journalist would do next. Hello? Okay, you are here.
