I remember experiences of fog in Carmel, where I lived when I was a child.
Fog smells sweet, first notice...it picks up scents from the ocean as it travels inland....a big dash of salt, some evergreen and sweet flower, a hint of old stucco and incense, a smidgeon of simmering garlic and herbs, and perhaps laughter, too, if laughter had a scent.
Fog slips silently past the shoreline, rolling across leaves and flowers; age-old missions and warm hobbit houses with high-pitched roofs; along, along, along the way until it glides right up to the tip of your nose. While your senses are busy translating the story of the fog's odyssey across oceans and shores, mysterious tendrils of mist coil around you effortlessly, painlessly, unavoidably. In a silent moment you are absorbed and bound in liquid oneness with the fog-traveler and become part of its tale as it stretches ever further inland, embracing and engulfing others as it unfolds.