Mary Winston Nicklin

In Paris, it’s the season for rose sniffers. As the days lengthen toward the summer solstice, the city’s roses unfurl their petals in an exuberant palette: coral, apricot, wine-red, lavender, sunny yellow. The colors are irresistible, but it’s really the scent that gives them away. The unmistakable perfume wafts over the cityscape and, for a brief moment, disguises less savory urban odors, luring passersby to plunge their noses into the roses and inhale with gusto.

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