Essay

Scentimental value

By Kit Pancoast Nagamura

Smell is not the first of the five senses we grasp in life — which is touching — nor the last to leave us when we die, do you hear me? Smell is not even the sense that people most fear losing, not by a long sight. However, our sense of smell, which wields immense influence over taste, often sneaks up on us, a stealth sense, a powerful and emotionally loaded perception.

A small kumquat tree on my balcony in Tokyo just exploded in discreet flowers. The sweet, tangy perfume of citrus blossoms left me temporally and physically disoriented because that fragrance, in my brain's lexicon, belongs in the Florida of my childhood. It's not a smell I associate with Japan. Perhaps if I had grown up in Tokyo near a kumquat tree, I would feel differently. Also, the fact that kumquat trees originated in China, and that China is a great deal closer to Japan than Florida is something my logical brain knows, but the nose knows not.

Linked to the limbic system of the brain, where the macrame of emotion and memory reside, it is no wonder olfactory perceptions seem capable of transporting us across continents and through time. A single smell can capture a loved one, a season, or even a sentiment. Mothballs make some of us instantly visualize winter coats or storage closets, and the odor of burning mosquito coils can evoke a hot summer breeze and the sound of cicadas.

Though a human's sense of smell is not particularly efficient compared to the acuity of, say, a dog or a rabbit, experiments have shown that even newborns can identify their mothers by scent alone. Smells have complex and personal associative maps, and some are deeply rooted in the cultural. The sachet stored with kimono has fabric protection all folded up in its herbal scent, and the smoky fragrance of temple incense is sufficient to make people pause, and contemplate the ephemeral nature of all things.

But what is a delicious scent to one — natto does come to mind — is not everyone's posy. The smell of decaying seaweed in humid salty air is not one with universal appeal, but I love how it reminds me of my seaside childhood.

One of my favorite scents in the world is that of the sweet osmanthus flower. Trees laden with these tiny orange flowers were in full bloom when I arrived in Japan for the first time, and I had never smelled anything like them. To this day, the perfume brings back a flush of memories of my initial explorations in Tokyo. My husband, on the other hand, associates the kinmokusei fragrance with a different flush, since the fragrance is a popular Japanese air freshener for the toilet. Similarly, when we were traveling in Vietnam, my husband and son shocked me by spending a pretty penny on an ugly chunk of wood. I learned that agarwood, when burnt, lets off a sweet resinous odor. Initially, it smelled to me like musty closets, but I'm growing to like the scent now. Obviously, our scensibilities are unique, but it pays not to turn one's nose up at a chance to expand one's olfactory vocabulary.

Shukan ST: October 29, 2010

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