There are few smells in Italy in March. This surprises me. I sniff flowers and there is nothing. Dave suspects that perfumerias have stolen the fragrance of every flower, and he may be right. The only smells that stand out from our trip are the rich, red winey vinegar smell at the balsamic achetaia, the thick cigarette cloud that was Rome, the creamy-sharp smell at every Parmigiana shop we stopped at, the rich cedar scent of the cut cypress branches I found and the candy-sweet scent of violets underfoot in the nun’s garden.