Les Plaisirs Nature - Vanille

Vanilla

Yves Rocher

It has been thirty years now, perhaps a little more, certainly not less.
I was just seventeen and still a bit wobbly on my own legs, which I was unexpectedly standing on.
Student loans and child benefits allowed for no big splurges; the budget was usually too small for luxury goods.
Smaller, at least, than my passion for fragrances, which had long outgrown "Janine D." and "My Melody."
It was during that time that Yves Rocher and I first met.

They were called "Chèvrefeuille" and "Diamella," "En Avril un Soir" and "Ming Shu," "Magnolia" and also quite simply "Nature."
They trained my nose, certainly my taste, and formed, quite incidentally, the foundation of a collection that has been growing and thriving ever since and still contains some scents from "Uncle Yves" among many others.
Not just out of nostalgia.
As budget-friendly as they are, they are never "cheap," shallow, or carelessly constructed; my nose does not wrinkle even today when a new Rocher comes my way.
At least not so far.

I cannot say when and how "Vanille" came to me.
The bottle is small and inconspicuous - and long overlooked.
So long, in fact, that it was the shower gel with which I then became acquainted, not knowing that a fragrance also belongs to it.
And although I knew Rocher, I was deeply impressed by this dark, tropical vanilla that, streaming from the shower, almost fills the entire house and weaves so closely and tightly with my skin as if it never wanted to let go.
Such phenomena I had only known from the luxury class, where a shower gel costs as much as Eau de Parfum elsewhere.
But not with Rocher, not with Uncle Yves.

Now "Vanille" has not only surprised me in the shower.
As unpretentious as the little bottle suggests simplicity: Already the first spray proves it wrong.
Dark golden, tropical dense, a cloud of fine, rich, smoky pod rises from my skin - a déjà-vu of "Noir Tropical" and "Eau des Missions," Montale's I'm-not-a-almond and many other treasures whose price sometimes really hurt me.
A sip of lemon buttermilk only refreshes briefly, then half-dark smoky velvet clouds embrace and sway me, so warm and soft yet so light, almost weightless.
Little children's noses sniff: "You smell nice again!" and my beloved's hands do not let go.
And Uncle Yves also holds me tight with his scent, for hours, for days, if I want.
Meanwhile, a latte macchiato costs more...