Top Notes 
Clary sage
Green notes
Lemon
Lime
Mandarin orange
Peach
Heart Notes 
Carnation
Cyclamen
Jasmine
Pine
Spices
Base Notes 
Ambergris
Cedarwood
Musk
Myrrh
Oakmoss
Russian leather
Vimzorkap
Farbenduft
5 Reviews
Translated · Show original
Farbenduft
3
Wings of Freedom
The 80s. All of Spain is rebelling after Franco's death to the rhythm of the Movida. All of Spain? No, a small village in the north, hidden among green hills and eucalyptus trees, still lives in the 60s. Elsewhere, young women danced with big shoulder pads and short hair to the music of Annie Lennox. Here, mothers still shopped for their daughters at the Merceria, the store for everything a woman needs: children's underwear, kitchen towels, needle and thread, lingerie, and decent clothing. There is also room for sophistication, but only at the right age. In the evenings after work, people stroll arm in arm, wearing mouse-tooth cardigans against the chill.
So this is where I found myself in the 80s. With my eco sweater, my asymmetrical haircut, and my little interest in domestic matters, I brought disorder to the public village image. I was quickly introduced to the clique of neighborhood girls. We were the same age - of course, we would become friends, and I would adapt, right? Disco? Yes, there was one, I learned from them - a delicate bond of first commonalities was forming. The evening came when we were to go to the disco. One by one, an ever-growing group of girls picked up the next friend. Then we would walk down the country road to the next village and around the bay to the disco. With each girl, the same ceremony took place: a big hello in front of the house, where mothers and neighbors humorously monitored their daughters' outfits while something was simmering on the stove inside. Like decent Senoras, they brought together a cloud of fragrance from traditional La Maja, delicate violets, modest lavender, feminine roses, or clean lemons. Loud squeals of excitement over a friend's outfit, a conspiratorial glance at the crowning touch with a fragrant essence from a bottle, and the group moved on, leaving behind a slightly lighter, sweeter, more floral cloud than that of the mothers.
The last friend to be picked up was, of course, the undisputed star of the clique. She could take her time. Everyone had to come up and see her jeans and outfit. She wore cheeky short hair, a rocker-style denim jacket, and sneakers instead of heels or ballet flats. Confidently, she summoned us as she dabbed on her new fragrance: This is "fresco" - fresh! It's different! Different from La Maja, from the violets, the roses, the vanilla, and the lemons. "fresco" also means cheeky! The cheeky scent was called Alada. The lettering "flies" across the glass in a flowing 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 give herself the aura of the independent, unconventional. To show that she wanted to be different, not pleasing, passive, cute, pretty, and neat, not typically feminine. To show that she longed to spread her wings and fly beyond the village, towards a wide horizon.
Thanks to Florblanca, I can once again perceive the hint of Alada from an almost empty bottle. Today, it doesn't seem as green to me as it did back then. Alada was too airy, too boyish, and too little mysterious for me at that time. Thus, I ultimately joined the ladies who considered this scent a deviation from the traditional house of Myrurgia. Today - just a few days after Jil Sanders' 80th birthday - I don't perceive Alada as so light anymore; I sense something spicy. It would still be a wearable chypre, almost classic, unexcited, feminine enough, with herbal and lavender notes. Something has quietly changed...
So this is where I found myself in the 80s. With my eco sweater, my asymmetrical haircut, and my little interest in domestic matters, I brought disorder to the public village image. I was quickly introduced to the clique of neighborhood girls. We were the same age - of course, we would become friends, and I would adapt, right? Disco? Yes, there was one, I learned from them - a delicate bond of first commonalities was forming. The evening came when we were to go to the disco. One by one, an ever-growing group of girls picked up the next friend. Then we would walk down the country road to the next village and around the bay to the disco. With each girl, the same ceremony took place: a big hello in front of the house, where mothers and neighbors humorously monitored their daughters' outfits while something was simmering on the stove inside. Like decent Senoras, they brought together a cloud of fragrance from traditional La Maja, delicate violets, modest lavender, feminine roses, or clean lemons. Loud squeals of excitement over a friend's outfit, a conspiratorial glance at the crowning touch with a fragrant essence from a bottle, and the group moved on, leaving behind a slightly lighter, sweeter, more floral cloud than that of the mothers.
The last friend to be picked up was, of course, the undisputed star of the clique. She could take her time. Everyone had to come up and see her jeans and outfit. She wore cheeky short hair, a rocker-style denim jacket, and sneakers instead of heels or ballet flats. Confidently, she summoned us as she dabbed on her new fragrance: This is "fresco" - fresh! It's different! Different from La Maja, from the violets, the roses, the vanilla, and the lemons. "fresco" also means cheeky! The cheeky scent was called Alada. The lettering "flies" across the glass in a flowing 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 give herself the aura of the independent, unconventional. To show that she wanted to be different, not pleasing, passive, cute, pretty, and neat, not typically feminine. To show that she longed to spread her wings and fly beyond the village, towards a wide horizon.
Thanks to Florblanca, I can once again perceive the hint of Alada from an almost empty bottle. Today, it doesn't seem as green to me as it did back then. Alada was too airy, too boyish, and too little mysterious for me at that time. Thus, I ultimately joined the ladies who considered this scent a deviation from the traditional house of Myrurgia. Today - just a few days after Jil Sanders' 80th birthday - I don't perceive Alada as so light anymore; I sense something spicy. It would still be a wearable chypre, almost classic, unexcited, feminine enough, with herbal and lavender notes. Something has quietly changed...
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Ergoproxy
