Not too long ago I mentioned how Córdoba's scent hit me as soon as I got off the train. It used to be that way with Madrid as well: I would get off the bus from the airport at Plaza Colón and lightly swoon as I inhaled the smell I hadn't realized I had forgotton, the smell of Madrid. It wasn't olive oil in this case, more like a mix of coffee and exhaust and fried calamari and that peculiar cleaning fluid that Spaniards use, but it instantly reminded me where I was, and I loved it.
When I got in to town earlier this week after a month away, it wasn't there. Or rather, it probably was but I didn't notice it. I think it must mean that Madrid is becoming home.