Elliott is very attuned to his sense of smell. He asks what odors are a lot (and there are a lot of them in Mexico), and he says aloud if something smells good or bad. He'll often say "I smell [insert person's name]" when he passes by their house or a place that has a fragrance he associates with them.
When we arrived in Hierve El Agua on Sunday, we stepped off the flatbed truck, walked a hundred feet on the dirt, and started down the path to the springs. Elliott cried out, "Mommy, what is that smell? It smells so good here. I like it!"
I knew the aroma - from my youth. It's probably been three decades since I smelled it. It was the unmistakable olfactory experience of the high Sierras - air so fresh that it carries the faintest whiff of pine resin from a single tree a hundred feet away and the rising warmth from the sun-baked earth.
"That's the smell of nature, my love. And I'm sorry you've never smelled it before."
[Insert onslaught of modern, hippy parental guilt here.]
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