Humour: Smell and the city

I returned from my maiden trip to Paris with stars in my eyes, romance in my head and a bottle of perfume. Almost a year later, I’m still wondering whether the fragrance I’ve been exulting in is actually a perfume or a linen spray. The label says something about ‘eau’ and ‘maison,’ which doesn’t bode well from whatever I remember of high school French. I sometimes tell myself it’s their house fragrance – a signature smell; when I’m anxious, I’m convinced it belongs on fabric and not skin. Sure, I could get some linguistic help and sort out the matter. But it’s so much more French to be suspended in this state of bittersweet unknowingness.