Smellville

Last week a list of the ten best smelling cities in the world. My beloved village, Pleasantville, came in at number two, edging out places like New Orleans, Mombai and San Francisco.  Our hamlet was bested only by the odiferously-renowned haven that is Los Angeles.

Never mind that we aren't technically a city, but a village of 7,000. And never mind that the writer may be backhandedly insulting us. (I can't be sure but I detect a possible jab in the sentence about "the smell of money" and our real estate "covenants.")  As a lucky inhabitant of this nasally pleasing village, I would like to state that I am in complete agreement with this assessment and believe that, if we work hard enough, we could gather up some outrage at not being named number one.

Of course, the one downside of being at the top means that people like nothing more than to tear you down. Some naysayers comment that including such a tiny village among such great metropolises is rather preposterous. Some other doubters find it hard to believe that our tiny village could beat out a tiny village in the Hawaiian islands or a tiny village that boasts a bread, chocolate and coffee factory.

Well to the first group, I must deduce that they have obviously never seen the t-shirts in our that clearly list us in the same grouping as London, Paris and Rome. And to the second bunch of sour-smelling grapes, I offer my condolences that they themselves do not live in such a pleasant village that perpetually delights all the senses.

Perhaps the following real-life local vignettes may help in illustrating why we took home the honors:

Scene 1
A mother is calmly instructing her children on how "maple, oak and pine smell cyclically different as the seasons turn." The kids' behavior is exemplary. They are sitting quietly, paying close attention to the lesson. I mean, they are rapt. If you walked in on this scene and didn't know any better, you'd think the mother was expertly homeschooling these kids before they were even of school-age.

Mother: (reading from iPad) "Pleasantville's scent is based on these trees and their leaves at all stages—green, yellow, dead brown, budding."

Child 1: I tooted.

Child 2: You mean farted! She farted!

Child 1: No I thought I pooped, but I just tooted.

Child 2: I smell it! It's coming out of her butt!

Scene 2
A father in his kitchen. He opens the refrigerator door.

Father: God, what is this smell! What is dying in here? It's been like this for weeks! Have you found it yet? Ugh!

Mother: Yes, it's "the smell of America as it was."

Scene 3
A mother pulls her two children in a wagon down an incredibly pleasant street.  The aroma of "people who want to flee New York's asphalt canyons" is in the air. The mother is so moved she whispers to herself, "If Norman Rockwell's paintings emitted a scent, this is what it would be."

Suddenly we hear the wretched sound of retching. Every mother knows this sound.

Within seconds, the children and their blankies are soaked in vomit.

Before she can even begin to think of dealing with the situation, we hear more retching, and the wagon begins to fill with throw up.

Panicked, she grips the wagon's handle and starts running, pulling her children floating in their own sick along with her. Since she lives in a village so tiny in both population and land area, she is never more than a few blocks from home. As she runs, her mind seesaws between two thoughts: Please God do not let anyone I know see me and I wonder if are attracted by the smell of regurgitated hot dogs.