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Notes09/13/2018
Valrahmeh
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Valrahmeh
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20
I'm out of here
Wine and perfume have a lot in common. A conspiring clientele finds out taste and scent directions that an ordinary person would never come across and this clientele also spends a lot of money on an ephemeral work of art that only they and a few initiates appreciate. And there is another thing wine and perfume have in common: they tempt you to make holiday-related purchases.
The ice-cold rosé from Ramatuelle, which tasted so tender and fresh on the sun-drenched terrace in St. Tropez, turns out to be a flat swill on the balcony in Hanover, for which one would not have spent 10 euros per bottle. That's what happened to me with Mediterraneo.
On my tour of Italy, which ended in Capri, I could not leave the island without a bottle from the house of Carthusia. Perfume decency demands it. And so I fell for Mediterraneo this time, no wonder with the constant lemon buzz you are exposed to there: lemons by the mountain for breakfast, lemons in the large marble fountain in the spa, lemons in colorful ceramic bowls by the pool, lemons in wooden boxes in the displays of the shops.
Mediterraneo smells exactly like sliced, thick, irregularly grown lemons with bright yellow elephant skin around it, which is so firm and snow-white when sliced open that there is hardly any room inside for too much juice. But a juice that is aromatic, fresh and not even really sour. So lemons that have nothing to do with the measly, Spanish industrial lemons in the yellow network in the supermarket.
The lady at Carthusia's recommended the large bottle of 100 ml, which proved to be very useful. So I sprayed myself with Mediterraneo and was immediately my own lemon grove. There were also a few mint stems lying around in the lemon grove. When I glided in from myself lemony-minty enthusiastically towards the hotel terrace for the aperitif, I might have put a few fragrance brands on the stairs, but my family smelled nothing. Or very little. After an hour, nothing. Mediterraneo doesn't develop at all with me, it's there - and soon afterwards it's gone. On the clothes, it'll be gone in ten minutes. Just dissolved, squeezed, gone.
That is very sad, because it is a really immediate, fresh and genuine lemon smell with some mint, which does not remind at all of cleaning or dishwasher detergent (which citrus smells sometimes have so at itself).
A kind of holiday wine, which was great on the spot and no longer has much strength at home. Never mind, I love Mediterraneo anyway, because it is a nice memory and I like to spray the lemons again and again as Capri longing into my hands and back my ears. But without this personal relationship it is really just a nice, very fast flying capresian lemon water.
The ice-cold rosé from Ramatuelle, which tasted so tender and fresh on the sun-drenched terrace in St. Tropez, turns out to be a flat swill on the balcony in Hanover, for which one would not have spent 10 euros per bottle. That's what happened to me with Mediterraneo.
On my tour of Italy, which ended in Capri, I could not leave the island without a bottle from the house of Carthusia. Perfume decency demands it. And so I fell for Mediterraneo this time, no wonder with the constant lemon buzz you are exposed to there: lemons by the mountain for breakfast, lemons in the large marble fountain in the spa, lemons in colorful ceramic bowls by the pool, lemons in wooden boxes in the displays of the shops.
Mediterraneo smells exactly like sliced, thick, irregularly grown lemons with bright yellow elephant skin around it, which is so firm and snow-white when sliced open that there is hardly any room inside for too much juice. But a juice that is aromatic, fresh and not even really sour. So lemons that have nothing to do with the measly, Spanish industrial lemons in the yellow network in the supermarket.
The lady at Carthusia's recommended the large bottle of 100 ml, which proved to be very useful. So I sprayed myself with Mediterraneo and was immediately my own lemon grove. There were also a few mint stems lying around in the lemon grove. When I glided in from myself lemony-minty enthusiastically towards the hotel terrace for the aperitif, I might have put a few fragrance brands on the stairs, but my family smelled nothing. Or very little. After an hour, nothing. Mediterraneo doesn't develop at all with me, it's there - and soon afterwards it's gone. On the clothes, it'll be gone in ten minutes. Just dissolved, squeezed, gone.
That is very sad, because it is a really immediate, fresh and genuine lemon smell with some mint, which does not remind at all of cleaning or dishwasher detergent (which citrus smells sometimes have so at itself).
A kind of holiday wine, which was great on the spot and no longer has much strength at home. Never mind, I love Mediterraneo anyway, because it is a nice memory and I like to spray the lemons again and again as Capri longing into my hands and back my ears. But without this personal relationship it is really just a nice, very fast flying capresian lemon water.
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