I once read somewhere that memory is intricately linked to the senses. Things we see and hear evoke the strongest recollections. But for me, it’s the power of smell that reigns supreme. The enveloping aroma of my grandpa’s library: tobacco, dust, oak bookshelves and old, mouldy books. Or the delicate fragrance of my mum’s nightgown: lavender, jasmine body cream and a hint of baby powder. The lingering smell of my first childhood home: curry simmering in a pot and the sweet freshness of freesias in a glass vase. The pungent smell of my high school: a sad cacophony of teenage angst and sweat. The smell of the university common room: tantalizing freshly brewed coffee, tattered books and a whisper of weed. The intoxicating scent of my daughter when they first placed her into my arms: blood, musk, joy, and something painfully animalistic.

The unmistakable smell of death and sickness hanging in the corner, waiting for me.

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One balmy night – many moons ago – I decided to go to Cape Sounion, surrender myself to the Temple of Poseidon and crash into the waves of the Aegean Sea. Determined, I hailed a cab to take me there. The cab driver was an affable man who smelled my despair and my desire to end it all.

So he took me for a ride to think things over. We saw the Acropolis all lit up, and the Odeon of Herodes Atticus, and all the contrasting realities of this city-from the squalor of the slums to the pungent smell of the fish market. From the prostitutes and the junkies trying to make a living out of this unfair world to the verdant suburbs where the smell of pines was overwhelming,

And I marvelled at the resilience of this ugly city. I thought that if this flawed city, marred by wars and poverty and architectural missteps, could persist, then so could I.

So I stayed alive.