It must have been May. I had gone to the Stazione Porta San Paolo because I wanted to go to Ostia, to the sea. Summer was already showing its claws; it was blisteringly hot. I didn’t know back then that this was just a preview. The Pyramid of Cestius, which stands there at the beginning of the ancient Via Ostiense, couldn’t care less that weary tourists were already boring themselves in its shadow with bottles of mineral water by nine in the morning, that the drivers of scooters and cars had already begun to be annoyed, because, firstly, it is used to the disappointment it causes many who expect the PYRAMID! and, secondly, it has been standing at a traffic junction for over two millennia. And the weather doesn’t matter to it.
The Cestius Pyramid is practically integrated into the wall of the "Non-Catholic Cemetery," where many Protestant residents of the Eternal City are buried, including Keats, Shelley, Gramsci, and Hans von Marées. But I wasn’t interested in that at the moment and only half-noticed everything, as the effect of the morning cold shower had already worn off ten minutes later; I didn’t want to miss the train, and I was drawn into the shadow of the train station hall.
The scent will come soon.
The train travels through strange new and older residential areas; next to crumbling backyards, a strange thing in salmon pink and mint green suddenly rises up, the next Casamento* shamelessly reveals that costs and efforts (or taxes) were spared in its construction, and a cluster of smaller brick houses amidst a group of block-like buildings raises the question of what this little spot could be about. Thoughts like these crossed my mind during the ride, reflecting on how modernity never really took place in Italy and is then somehow caught up as a kind of game, because in this country modernity has never been perceived as a spiritual or cultural movement, but merely as design, etc. - all of this was overshadowed by the music in my headphones, as my roommate had gifted me a CD by Tori Amos for my birthday, and I had been listening to "From the Choirgirl Hotel," which had just been released, on repeat for several days. If the hysteria became too much, I would relax with motets by Josquin Desprez…
Of course, I didn’t know back then that I would use this trip to describe a scent.
At some point, the city finally ends after a long hesitation, and you drive through the dull plain that the constantly silting up mouth of the Tiber has left behind in its apparent eternal flight from the metropolis over many centuries. Yes, the south has its own unique depressions. Since the 5th century, the harbor basin of Ostia Antica has moved more than 5 kilometers away from the sea; today, grass grows in it.
I should gradually get to the scent.
From the Ostia train station, you have to walk quite a distance to finally reach the sea. I had rented a spot with a deck chair, as there is hardly any free beach left, and spread my bright orange beach towel on it. This clearly marked my territory and made it easy for me to find again if the urge for a coffee struck me. I applied sunscreen as a formality, put on sunglasses as a formality, and began to read something clever in a clever book, although I couldn’t really concentrate. This was because not far from me, three tanned girls had started to establish a competing beach establishment. So I squinted unseen from the protection of the dark glasses over to these colorful figures. Since I could no longer read - I could still look. As the eye wanders more easily than the hand, I had my entertainment. Moreover, my Italian had improved enough that I could somewhat follow everyday conversations. This, in turn, slightly demystified these three graces and made their grace a bit more earthly.
Now I am almost at the point.
It was strange that they were actually setting up their camp in a very cumbersome way and were equipped with an almost inexhaustible supply of bath towels, beach bags, sarongs, lotions, and drinks, so that I had to wonder how these delicate beings were actually able to haul this immense amount of material to the beach and what means they had at their disposal. In any case, they disappeared after everything was organized to their apparent satisfaction and corresponded to their imagined higher order, which remained unclear to me. I could now quietly observe the arrangement and still read, depending on the situation. I could even test the water, which I always approached with caution in Ostia…
So.
Now came the time when I wanted to visit the bar that belonged to this beach section to have a doppio espresso and cold water. With towels wrapped around their waists in white, with "Pace" and in ultramarine blue, the three tanned girls stood there chatting with the man at the bar, who was trying hard to maintain the expression "Sorry, girls, I’m on duty," but was sinking in a sea of testosterone. I approached as close as courtesy allowed to the three of them and ordered water, coffee, and a vanilla croissant. You know those vanilla croissants, the Cornetti alla vainiglia, that are practically always and everywhere available in Italy? And you know how they smell when they are still warm? And you know how three sunblock-covered Italian girls smell with remnants of Italian girl perfumes and a bit of Italian girl scent? And that Italian detergents and fabric softeners like to contain such floral notes that remain perceptible on towels and fabrics? And you know that a bar has its own unique scent to add to that? You know how all of this intertwines and mingles in your nose?
Without this scent sample, I probably would never have remembered this scene again. You now also know why, to the astonishment of those around me, I had been smelling like tanned girls on the beach of Ostia in 1998 for the third day already.
Top Notes 
Coriander seed
Rosewood
Bergamot
Mandarin orange
Neroli
Cinnamon
Tomato leaf
Heart Notes 
Orchid
Iris
Jasmine
Mock-orange
Rose
Tuberose
Ylang-ylang
Base Notes 
Vanilla
Ambergris
Oakmoss
Sandalwood
Civet
Pollita
Pluto
Duftessa
Unchaned
Minea
Zimtschnecke
IrisNobile
Rosalie
Lilienfeld
Gandix
