So I was in Back Bay to meet a friend for a few drinks last night. I had a bit of time to kill and dropped into the Boston Public Library. I don’t know if you all know what a gem that is, particularly the McKim Building itself, with its John Singer Sargent and Edwin Austin Abbey murals. Sargent’s Triumph of Religion on the third floor is stunning. The sumptuous Abbey murals on the second floor depict the Arthurian Legend.

The third floor also houses exhibitions of all sorts, and the nice thing about that is any time you’re in the neighborhood and you have a few minutes you can drop in and see something interesting. Last night it was “The Magical Reality of Alexandre Benois,” the famous designer, with sketches and watercolors.

But my absolute favorite little room up there is the one (pictured above) where they have the dusty dioramas. This is a permenant display, and it never ceases to delight me. The scenes range from a desert at sunset to backstage at the caberet, and they really are delightful.

I met my friend for a drink in a crowded little pub in the neighborhood and as promised she had brought some pure essence of jasmine, which she guaranteed would lift my spirits. Not that I’m all down in the dumps. But I’m always on the lookout for herbal remedies for the old winter funk. With six more weeks of winter on the way, you’ve got to have a strategy.

I can’t say whether the jasmine worked for me. I just dabbed a little on my wrist. My friend went all out, splashing it behind her ears, under her chin, on her wrists, armpits, everywhere. I’m all for it, but I’m still not sure I could go around smelling that good all the time. It’s easier for women. She says people would be drawn to me on the T and not know why, but I’m not sure that’s such a good thing, either.

There’s no doubt in my mind that certain scents influence mood. The problem is other people smelling you. Even feel-good scents should be worn in moderation, I think. I mean, you definitely don’t want people getting too friendly with you on the T. Polite and nice is good. But it’s a very fine line, isn’t it? You don’t want them coming up to you and humping your leg, or whatever.

We rode the green line together to Park, and it was funny. We were both in a pretty good mood, doused in about a gallon on jasmine essence, but I was like, “seriously, look around.” It was like we were on the express-train to the Doldrums. That time of night—I mean, anytime after eight—it’s not old people on the T, it’s the young’uns. Here you had all these youths, looking like the vital life-force had been completely wrung out of them. I’m not kidding about this, people. You can’t spend months out of the year like this. Especially when you’re young. Youth is frisky and frollicky and fun, dammit! Everyone on that train last night was all slumped over, looking at the floor. Nobody smiled. Nobody spoke. Thank God they don’t use passenger-energy to power the trains, because it would’ve taken three hours to get from Copley to Park.