Alada Myrurgia 1979

The 80s. The whole of Spain rebels to the rhythm of the Movida after Franco's death. All of Spain? No, a small village in the north, hidden between green hills and eucalyptus trees, is still living in the 60s. Elsewhere, young women with thick shoulder pads and short hair danced to the music of Annie Lennox. Here, mothers still shopped for their daughters in the Merceria, the store for everything a woman needs: children's underwear, kitchen towels, needle and thread, underwear and decent clothes. There is also room for sophistication here, but only at the right age. In the evening, after work is done, you can stroll around in a mouse-tooth cardigan against the chill. so this is where I ended up in the 80s. With my eco-sweater, my asymmetrical haircut and my lack of interest in housekeeping, disorder entered the public village scene. I was quickly introduced to the clique of neighbor girls. They were the same age - of course we would become friends and I would fit in, right? Disco? Yes, there was, I found out from them - a tender bond of first similarities was forming. The evening came when we were supposed to go to the disco. A growing group of girls took it in turns to pick up their next friend. Then they would walk down the country road, one village further and around the bay to the disco. The same ceremony took place for each girl: a big hello in front of the house, where the mothers and neighbors supervised their daughters' elevator with some humor, while inside what on the fire just got by on its own. Like proper senoras, they brought together a cloud of scents of traditional La Maja, delicate violets, prudish lavender, feminine roses or clean lemons. Loud squeals of excitement at the friend's outfit, a conspiratorial look at the crowning dab with a fragrant essence from a bottle, and on the group went, leaving a slightly lighter, sweeter, more floral scent cloud than the mothers'.
The last friend to be picked up was, of course, the undisputed star of the clique. It was allowed to take longer with her. Everyone should come up and take a look at her jeans and outfit. She had cheeky short hair, a rocker-style denim jacket and sneakers instead of high heels or ballerinas. She confidently implored us as she dabbed on her new fragrance: This is "fresco" - fresh! It's different! Different from La Maja, different from the violets, roses, vanilla and lemons. "fresco" also means cheeky! The cheeky fragrance was called Alada. The lettering "flies" across the glass in a curved and brisk manner, expressing something airy, changeable and unbound. My association with the lettering was always wind over dune sand. Alada means "winged".
In the village drugstore, Alada was often recommended when a hopeless case was looking for something "different". Alada smelled like a man at the end of the 80s. A young woman could use it to give herself the aura of the independent, unconventional. To show that she wanted to be different, not pleasing, passive, cute, pretty and neat, not a typical woman. To show that she longed to spread her wings and fly beyond the village, towards a wide horizon.
Thanks to Florblanca, I can smell the scent of Alada again on an almost empty bottle. Today, it doesn't seem as green to me as it did back then. At the time, Alada was too airy, too boyish and not mysterious enough for me. In the end, I joined the ranks of the ladies who judged this fragrance to be an aberration on the part of the traditional house of Myrurgia. Today - a few days after Nil Sander's 80th birthday - I don't find Alada so light at all, I perceive something spicy. It would still be a wearable chypre, almost classic, unagitated, feminine enough, with herbaceous and lavender notes. Something has quietly changed...