We brought my sister home from the hospital today and the thing I remember most about the homecoming is the smell. In the extended stay apartment we have rented there was a smell that was very distinct. At the threshold it was the olfactory equivalent of the line between the Mediterranean and the Altantic, a distinctly observable line where one would not expect one. On one side the relatively clean air of the hallway, with the smell of food preparation in other apartments, and on the other ... nothing short of the smell of decay. Those of you who grew up with large backyards and specifically with compost heaps and mulching will have a better grasp of what this scent was like. Thick like a humid day, it was sickly sweet like fruit that has been rotting in a cardboard box in the dark for days. I've heard people describe the smell of death in the same way, and it wasn't something we enjoyed walking into. Yet there was more to the scent than just that. It also had a dank sort of feel to it that brought to mind the mustiness of a cave with unusually strong stalactite activity, and the same warmth one would expect to accompany that. It didn't just waft into your nostrils, no, it was not content to have that sort of pedestrian interaction with you. Instead it crept around your legs and up your body preferring to come around your face from the back of your head, through your nostrils and the channel connecting your ear and nose as well. It immediately appeared there in your sinuses, unwelcome and unexpected, before making it's way into the nostril proper and introducing itself.
Now if you've met me you know that my nose is somewhat ample, and thus built to have the sort of olfactory resolution one would associate with a particularly doleful hound dog. In the instant of my stepping through the doorway I was immediately attacked by this insidious scent and nearly recoiled physically. A quick glance confirmed that my family had also gotten a whiff and were all politely holding their tongues in case someone had an upset tummy (not an entirely unheard of situation, mind you). Instead we all went about our business, and like the aforementioned hound dog I wandered around the living room sniffing at things. The trash, the fridge, the carpet: they all checked out. It was then that I discovered a small puddle on the floor near the sink. Following it upwards I found a larger puddle on the counter under the dish rack that extended left and right from the sink itself to the crevice between the sink and the stove. Quickly testing the faucet I surmised that it had been dripping every time the water was running and leaking under the cover of the drying rack across the counter and down the crevice. Well, my dear Watson, once I'd determined the nature of the leak and knowing, as I do, that standing water will "go bad", it was a quick leap to the solution. Nothing that couldn't be fixed with some paper towels and moving the stove, for which I would be fortunately absent as I had to leave in order to catch my plane back to San Francisco.