The scent that remains with me from my recent time in Paris is that of the urinal.

The stench of piddle overwhelmed The Seine.

It was in the corner of the RER B train.

So pungent you could practically taste it in the 32 degree roasting air.

A Mexican pensioner, fresh from the Camino del very long walk place in Spain, consulted me on it before hitching his garter up to the Palais Royal.