Twice a week I head to midtown for a quick trip to the allergist. These visits cut into my work day and a sense of urgency surrounding my own duties coupled with the general freneticism of the commercial district make me all business. I know exactly where to stand on the train to get onto the platform right by the stairs that lead to the street closest to my destination.

I am walking quickly, stepping around smaller people, running up the stairs if I can. Or shuffling along in a long line of step-to-the-right winding rows of other trapped and herded commuters. Then I am burped out, extruded into Herald Square with the tourists, the boutiques, the newspaper hawkers, idling trucks, honking horns.

In front of a nearby building is a huge planter filled with unnaturally early hyacinths. By now I am usually a little overwhelmed and they are such a welcome sight. Each time I pass I bend down and take, not a little sniff, but a long, extended vacation, my nose buried.

Today a nearby doorman calls me out. “Hey! I always see you! You smell the flowers!” He has noticed me, and how rare is that in this city? I drop my head, embarrassed and pleased.