Haneen Al Haramain Eau de Parfum

A modern Arabian fairy tale:
I have to hurry. I’m about to meet John Ramsey, an old friend from school days. We were the best of friends back then, and that has remained true to this day. We haven’t seen each other since, but we have always exchanged our thoughts and feelings via chat and webcam. While I go about my daily life in Europe, he has settled in the Orient as a tour guide. His tours are highly sought after among insiders, as they include visits to sights that are not often seen. When you book him, you don’t get a time-pressured itinerary with predetermined destinations. No. He takes you to hidden places, to secret refuges, and into seemingly enchanted worlds. In an old, rickety, decommissioned army jeep, I bump along from the edge of the city, where I’m staying in a hotel, through swirling dust to our meeting point on the other side of town. Leaning casually against a wall, with a book in hand, there stands my contact. The rattling of the approaching jeep and the squeaking brakes pull him out of his stance. Seconds later, we are in each other’s arms, and he spins me around until my feet lift off the ground from the motion, making me feel like I’m on a carousel. Once back on solid ground, I feel quite dizzy. But when do you ever get such a warm and exuberant welcome? The last time we stood face to face, we were still children. How time flies.
"Are you ready to visit a very special place with me?" John asks me with an expectant look. I nod, of course I am. And I’m curious where he will take me. We walk for a while outside the city walls until we reach a wall with a curved wrought-iron gate covered in vines, which initially conceals the view inside the walls. It can be opened like wings, gradually revealing its previously hidden secret. In no way would I have expected or dreamed of what lies behind the neatly stacked stones.
A rose garden of such beauty and fragrance intensity, as if it had sprung directly from the pages of a fairy tale. One rose bush after another, lush blooms surrounded by all sorts of insects, visited by colorful songbirds showcasing their vocal talents, and shielded from unknowing eyes and unwanted mass tourism. John is a welcome guest, bringing Jassim, the owner of the garden, select visitors who still appreciate beauty. No selfies with roses and Jassim are taken here, no flowerbeds trampled, and no butterflies or birds captured. Those who come here behave and enjoy. Hardly have we taken a few steps inward from the closing gate when Jassim comes joyfully toward us. John and he have become good friends over the years, and I seem to automatically belong after a hearty hug. In the middle of the garden, hidden behind tall rose bushes and under three mighty palm trees, stand a few small tables and chairs.
Jassim serves us lemon tea, the scent of which refreshingly and fragrant winds its way up our noses, blending with the rose scent of the garden. The wooden note from the chairs and tables with the fresh polish mingles with them. While I chat with John about the experiences of the last few days since my arrival, the scents are omnipresent, as if the breezes that sweep through the garden are closely and inseparably connected to them. Grinning, Jassim brings us a tiny carafe, from which he drizzles an oil onto our palms. It is made from pressed ylang-ylang, jasmine, fruit juices, and spices, and when rubbed on the skin, it unfolds an incredibly enchanting and almost ethereal scent. Jassim is visibly proud of his oil, which has been produced by hand according to traditional recipes unchanged to this day. Only in this way does it retain its characteristic aromatic fragrance.
We spent the entire afternoon in the garden. Almost intoxicated by the swirling scents, we strolled through the rose paths and talked about everything under the sun. Then I must unfortunately return to the hotel. We walk back to the city wall with the parked jeep. As a farewell, John hands me a lavishly decorated box with oriental inlays. So beautiful that I hardly dare to touch it. "But you can only open it at home," John admonishes me, raising his index finger. I promise and hug him in thanks, and unfortunately also to say goodbye. My flight is soon. I have to go back and finish packing my bags before heading to the airport.
The door to my apartment clicks shut behind me, and I am quite tired from the flight. However, I still have just enough strength to rummage through my suitcase for John's box. I sit on the edge of the bed and admire the noble and shiny decorations. I must now know what lies within and slide the latch out through the ring. Slowly, I lift the lid and am almost a bit blinded. Resting on red velvet is a richly decorated golden flask with a rose-shaped cap. The inscription "Haramain Haneen" means nothing to me yet. I set the cap aside, and a spray head comes into view. Once activated, it becomes instantly clear to me what resides in the container. It is exactly the rose scent from Jassim's garden, with the precious aroma of his oil.
John could not have given me a more beautiful gift. Now I can relive my journey and the visit to the rose garden with him again and again in my thoughts.
And thanks to the scent, my mental excursions become a little more real.