Fresh Air

--Excerpt from "A Work in Progress"--
Cold, almost wet, air filled the shoebox sized bedroom from top to bottom with one quick gust. The smell of damp leaves and burning wood overwhelmed her senses so much that she took a step back, considered shutting the window, and then realized that this seemingly foul odor was actually quite nice upon second whiff.

It had been her routine to open the door-like-window every morning while getting ready for her daily French lessons. Sure, it took her a week to figure out how to actually open the european window, but after that she never missed a morning of cleansing the air of her 50-square-foot French “studio-apartment” (worse conditions than Harry Potter’s cubby-hole under the stairs at Number Four Privet Drive).

In August the smell was sweet and warm, but by October the French air had acquired a cold, winter smell; burning wood, wet leaves, and the unique fragrance of cool air. The wet air was refreshing and almost purifying. Her pea-sized apartment was so small that even the quickest burst of fresh air rejuvenated the space for hours to come. The combination of smells comforted her just as her homesickness was beginning to set in.

Each morning she opened the window, took a shower, dried her hair, and prepped for another day of class at the Université Jean Monet of St. Étienne, France. She pulled on her boots and headed out the door--- only to stop at the elevator, turn around, and rush back to close the gigantic window. On the off chance of rain, the precious contents of her room (family photos, hand drawn pictures from her nephews, and post cards from home) would have been destroyed. Sometimes she made it all the way to the bus stop, looked up at the third floor, and sighed a miserably loud sigh. Missing the bus meant walking down the mountain-like-hill and through the city in the bitter wind. More often than not she opted out of taking her chances with the rain. She hiked back up the stairs to close the window and then walked to class, veering out of her way just a smidgen in order to purchase a fresh, buttery croissant. The wind was torture, but the smell of the St. Etienne cold air was something she wouldn’t have traded for anything in the world.

Two years later an eerily similar smell wafts into her bedroom on the other side of the large pond. Each morning she opens her window to freshen the air in her tiny (but not as tiny) D.C. apartment. Washington, D.C. is her new land of adventure. As she hurries out the door she remembers to close her window, but almost always forgets to grab her umbrella. October has arrived, and Washington rain typically comes without warning.

--Excerpt from a work in progress.