The metro in Paris has a very particular smell. The best way I can describe it is like hot saw dust. I know that makes sense and doesn’t sound very appealing, but I love it. Sometimes I walk over the metro grates just to get a whiff.
It reminds me of when I studied here in ’93: running from a bar at the end of the night to try to catch the last train before 1 a.m. Taking the train to my literature or feminism class. One night, a guy I knew and I sat on the platform, swigging rum from a flask, until we were drunk enough to make out for hours. (Classy, I know.) Amazing that certain smells can conjure such memories.