7:15 p.m.: Emerge from apartment in West Village - it smells like maple syrup. That's funny, I think to myself. I must be dreaming, or else someone has dropped a bottle on the sidewalk somewhere. I say nothing to my companion. Get in cab.
7:30 p.m.: Emerge from cab in Chelsea - it smells like maple syrup. I mention this to my companion. She agrees. We both look up at the sky. No sign of maple syrup there. We enter the Rubin Museum (opening of a wonderful exhibit on Himalayan Art).
8:45 p.m.: Emerge from the Rubin Museum - it smells like maple syrup. Neither of us talk about it. We part. I hail a cab.
9:00 p.m.: Emerge from cab in mid-town for dinner with family - damn it, it smells like maple syrup!
10:30 p.m.: Emerge from restaurant. This is strange. I begin to smell myself. Did I spill syrup on my jacket? Did I sit in it?
This morning: Open newspaper. Find this. It explains that I was not the only one. It doesn't explain much else.
The little mysteries in life are truly beautiful. A headline like "Strong, Sweet Smell Reported in Manhattan" just doesn't happen every day.