Antibes par les narines

One of the ways of navigating blindfold through the streets of Antibes is by sense of smell. There are the acrid, gagging smells of the piss-soaked winos who sleep rough near the back entrance to the Parking de la Poste. Then there are the not unpleasant fishy wafts from the stands where the local fishermen sell their catch.

There are the strong rising currents of aromatic fermentation from the sewers, now beginning to heat up nicely. Then there are are the sudden reminders of restaurants, via their backstreet kitchen air extractors.

What beats the acidic smell of dogshit from the flowerbeds, a defecatory abundance which makes the job of town gardeners so repulsive here, is the heady perfume of the many orange and lemon trees. The flowers don't look very spectacular, but they give off an indecent amount of fragrance, as if somebody had gone wild with all the samples in an airport duty free shop. It's a good time to be in Antibes.