On Olfactory Privilege
Dear mildly curious Reader (and any accidental passers-by),
In Sweden, people generally do not smell of anything. This is not a metaphor. It is a national condition.
To such an extent, in fact, that certain supermarkets display signs at the entrance indicating that customers who smell too strongly of perfume may be denied entry, on the grounds that they might disturb, or possibly offend, other shoppers. The exact offence remains unclear. One assumes it is olfactory.
As a consequence, when I recently went for a walk and passed someone who smelled improbably, almost theatrically, of excellent perfume, I very nearly stopped and followed him. Not in a concerning way. More in the manner of a mildly deprived bloodhound who has suddenly rediscovered civilisation.
Having now spent a few months in Switzerland, I can report that people here do, once again, smell. There is, naturally, the category of ‘too much perfume’, which arrives before the person and lingers after them like a committed rumour. But there is also the good kind — the one that makes you turn your head, briefly question your direction, and inhale with purpose.
I once had a boyfriend who could not smell.
That is not entirely accurate. If prompted — ‘Do you smell that?’ — and he paused, and made a deliberate effort, then yes, he could. But it required intent. Smell, for him, was not an ambient experience but a scheduled activity.
This was particularly puzzling because he loved food. Deeply. Enthusiastically. And yet, as it turns out, up to 80% of what we perceive as taste is, in fact, smell. I exist in a world where flavour arrives fully formed, uninvited, and often overwhelming. He, on the other hand, had to step into it deliberately, like entering a room that required prior booking.
To his credit, once there, he enjoyed it.
His doctor gave him exercises, one of which I found both enlightening and faintly insulting to the apple.
What you need: raw apple and raw potato, cut into similar shapes
Steps:
- Close your eyes (or outsource the responsibility to another human)
- Pinch your nose
- Taste one piece
What happens:
Without smell, distinguishing between the two becomes unexpectedly difficult. Both register as crunchy and vaguely cooperative.
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It is a humbling experience for all involved.
Smell is also deeply entangled with memory, which is where things become unnecessarily profound.
What is your favourite smell? Mine, in a display of originality that will surprise no one, is books. Books, however, do not smell universally consistent. A book in Japan smells markedly different from a book in Switzerland. This suggests that literature, much like cheese, absorbs its surroundings.
I also own a hair product that I have not used in over ten years. It is, by any practical definition, obsolete. However, it smells exactly like one of the first significant trips I took with my husband — several weeks, multiple locations, everything aligning in a suspiciously cinematic fashion. It was Christmas. It was perfect. The bottle remains, not as a cosmetic item, but as a portable archive.
Not all smells are welcome.
Chocolate, for instance, is troubling. I enjoy eating it. I do not enjoy smelling it. The smell itself is, frankly, offensive. I treat it as a necessary administrative step before consumption — something to be endured briefly before escaping outdoors with the actual reward.
My husband maintains that coffee would be vastly improved if it tasted the way it smells. This is difficult to dispute.
And then there are the social implications of smell, which are, if nothing else, honest.
I was once walking with a friend when I informed him, that he was one of the few men with whom I would not object to sharing a tent. He considered this, then replied:
“Yes, but I would object, because we are both drinking protein shakes, and that makes your farts smell terrible.”
It is important to surround oneself with people who provide clarity.
On that note, I shall leave you to consider your own olfactory allegiances while I revisit my expired hair product.
Ruby
