If I smell Testors model enamel I am instantly and vividly transported back to northern Indiana, 1974, to a very small closet in my older brother's room. There is just enough space to sit in a folding chair with your back to the closed door. A piece of plywood is hung as a desk. The whole thing is painted a pale avocado green. Red carpeting, appropriate for a kid's room at the time. It is silent. The door is shut but I'm pretty sure the sun is out. This was his car, plane, and monster model lab. We moved long before I could inherit it but to this day, if I smell Testors, I can't not go there. I have no choice but to smell the dry enclosed space, the dust and stuffy heat of the small overhead lamp, to feel at peace in the blanket of a quietness of another age and the contentedness of boyhood long gone. It's one of my earliest, best memories (can you tell?), seared in permanently. Was probably the volatile hydrocarbons and concentrated solvents that did it but no other smell does that to me.