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Italian morning

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It smells like an Italian morning outside. It smells like mornings in Umbria when my mother and I rented an apartment among the grapevines. I live in Montreal's Little Italy, so maybe it is the breakfasts Maria and Kyriakos are cooking, wafting into the alley. Or the bits of feverfew still growing in the garden where we have buried the fig trees for the winter. All mixed with diesel coming from Rue Jean-Talon a block down. There was a lot of diesel in the little Umbrian town. Kyriakos rolls the local newspaper and sticks it in our fenceposts for my husband before any of us rises, and newspaper has its own scent. Maybe that scent too mixes in, then there is the freshness of a hint of snow in the air. I don't mind the diesel smell at all - I like bridges and industrial rivers and all that goes with them, and the smell of a newsagent's shop reminds me of getting English comics when I was small in the industrial north of England. It was exciting to get a new comic. Exciting to see ships' lights on the river, and bridges intersecting the sky. The smell outside, this morning, is of this part of the city awakening, and I love it.
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On December 2nd, 2009 10:22 pm (UTC), catchingdays commented:
Beautifully detailed description. Made me think of the way Paris smells.
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On December 3rd, 2009 11:11 pm (UTC), 534mu5 commented:
sounds marvelous. it's cold cold cold here and my fingers are frozen after writing outside at the local coffee house. the novel is like some strange afterbirth, unraveling, uncertain, pigmented, complicated...
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