A Winter's Tale
On cold-weather scents for book lovers, Grace Kelly's pressed flowers, and the ghost of Ray Eames' perfume.
Two weeks ago, I escaped dystopian brown-sludge-buried NYC for a (literal) hot second in L.A., where it was radiantly sunny and 85 degrees. While there, I snagged last-minute tickets to visit the Eames House, which I have always wanted to see, and which was every bit as inspiring as I had hoped. You’re not allowed to physically enter the house unless you’re willing to pony up $1,250, but you are welcome to wander the surrounding meadow and gaze agog through the house’s glass walls. A sliding door into the iconic double-height living room was standing open, so when the docent wasn’t looking, I leaned in… and was practically knocked backwards by the potent pong of old books.
