During my morning bus commute, an elegantly dressed woman took the seat beside me, enveloping our space with an exquisite fragrance. Curiosity got the better of me. “Pardon me, but might I ask what perfume you’re wearing? My wife would adore it.”
“It’s Chanel No. 5,” she replied proudly. “Purchased in Paris.”
About fifteen minutes later, an unfortunate bodily function betrayed me. As the odor permeated our shared space, the woman recoiled in disgust. “My word! What is that dreadful smell?”
With perfect composure, I answered, “That would be garlic. I’m from Gilroy – the garlic capital of California.”
