Aglianico

There is an ice cream parlor in the town where I grew up. Across from it: a church. Behind it, a small grove. In summer, the line in front of the ice cream parlor is long because the ice cream is good. One of the flavors, at least back then, was named "Angel Blue" by the owners, perhaps because of the nearby church, perhaps because of the delicate shade of blue that was still too intense to be considered sky blue. It was a very sweet, very artificial, non-alcoholic Blue Curacao syrup ice cream, a sin that was very popular among children and teenagers. Especially with me.

Pacific Rock Moss reminds me of this ice cream.

Not because this "strange aquate" is sweet. It certainly is not. But it is lovely, squeaky (unfortunately only for a few hours), playfully youthful, cheerful, and carefree in a way that allows me to forgive it for being a type I actually do not like.

The watery turquoise/blue of the perfume fits wonderfully with this scent (and probably contributed sustainably to my Angel Blue Ice association). Equally wonderful: that it is an "overseas scent," which, lacking long traditions, does not have to take into account a decades-old portfolio and the "pressure of tradition" that weighs on the established houses. A bit like how an Australian Shiraz wine ran "out of competition" for a long time and was mildly mocked by lovers of a southern French Syrah.

For me, it is a scent for summer. A scent that carries me back through the years to the outdoor pool. To the sunbathing lawn. When you collapse onto the towel after an hour in the water, roll around, close your eyes, and let the sun turn you red. When the previous exertion leads to that wonderful dizziness that connects you firmly with the earth and the world.

Pacific Rock Moss is a scent that I could easily imagine on teenagers and young adults, unisex, if it weren't so expensive (and for everyone who wants to remember those times). With its rather pronounced "artificiality," it has a youthful vibe (I keep thinking about the sweets from the pool kiosk while writing this). In the best sense. This is a time when you - hopefully - do not know much yet, and do not consider much in your actions, which can sometimes lead to a carefree attitude that unfortunately will not exist later in life (at least not this one).

Speaking of artificiality. Yes, I agree with the lemon. But coastal moss, sage...? I don't know. It doesn't matter. Maybe it's marketing. Perhaps it is meant to contribute to achieving a scent placebo effect (and with my above associations, it has apparently achieved just that, hats off!). I have smelled "Parco Palladiano XV: Salvia Blu" twice, which is also supposed to have a pronounced sage note, and they share something distantly. Whether that is "natural sage" - I cannot say (at least all the types of sage I have smelled in nature smelled different).

But I believe that Pacific Rock Moss is more of a scent of abduction. A scent that wants to transport you to summer, to the blazing sun, to the convertible, if you like, to Capri or to those distant, deserted beaches of the Australian east coast, somewhere between Brisbane and Sydney. You wear white linen shirts, salt crystals in your hair, the sea is crashing, and there are no more thoughts, everything is here and now, crunching sand between the toes.

Therapist: “Then please describe to me how it came to be that your thoughts keep circling around this one scent … what was it called again?”

Addict: “Noir de Noir by Tom Ford!”

T: “Right, Noir de Noir … so, that your thoughts keep revolving around this one scent. That has a slightly compulsive quality to it. You surely know that its name means ‘Darkness of Darkness’?!“

S: “I like to call it ‘deepest darkness’ for myself. Or also ‘absolute deepest black.’”

T (between interpretation and gentle irony): “Sounds a bit … depressing?!“

S (hurt): “That’s Mr. Ford’s fault!”

T (cryptically): “Hmm … So, how did it come to that?”

Silence. (…)

S: “Hmm, yes, well, um, I had caught his name somewhere on the internet and when I passed by the Tom Ford counter in a large department store yesterday, yes, that name just popped back into my mind. Do you know that swirling, gaseous scent soup that almost takes your breath away in such department stores? I always wonder how much sense it makes to even test a scent there. But I thought to myself: If the opportunity presents itself … So I patiently wait at the counter, in front of me two gentlemen in Barbour jackets. I listen to their dialogue with the stern-looking saleswoman. ‘Is this Uth Wutt any good?’ ‘(A longer rehearsed praise from the saleswoman including a ‘It develops differently on every skin.’)’ ‘Then I’ll take that one, please prepare a 250ml bottle for me.’ (To his companion:) ‘Do you want one too, it’s on me today?’ ‘I can’t say no to that, can I?’”

T: “Please get back to the topic, our session only lasts 50 minutes …”

S: “Ah, sorry. So, at some point, it’s my turn and I ask for a few sprays of the ‘deepest darkness’ and the Japanese plum …” (Ignores the therapist’s confusion.) “The fine mist spreads like a promise, hits the test strip … I freeze … I sense it already, I smell, take the piece of paper with the perfume and …” (Grins and cries at the same time)

T: “Would you like a tissue?”

S: “No, I’m fine.”

T: “Please describe to me exactly what you felt … smelled in that moment. As detailed as possible. Transport yourself back to that special moment.”

S: “Well, I already mentioned: department store, scent soup and so on … The thing with the deepest darkness and me really only started that evening.”

T: “So, Noir de Noir lasted quite a while?”

S: “Absolutely! It retreats a bit, but it doesn’t disappear quickly. This is one that stays all day. Or even the night.”

T: “And what happened yesterday evening?”

S: “I cooked rice with vegetables and then …”

T: “Nooo, with you and the Noir de Noir.”

S: “Sorry, I’m so sorry that I’m always so scatterbrained in our sessions. I really wonder sometimes how you put up with me.”

T: “It’s all good. So …?”

S (takes a deep breath): “I bring the scent strip to my nose and suddenly fall through time. Outside, it’s twilight, night is approaching, the next day, I could feel it, it would rain, I am alone, alone with the spreading darkness. And from the very first moment, there is a soft rose, a deep rose, I have no words for it. I … I actually hate roses, their scent, I can’t even stand rose water. But everything is different here. This rose scent not only pleases me, it captivates me, it presses me to itself, so that I block everything else out. There’s something else, a slight bitterness, delicate, but probably gives the rose a corset, maybe like a very unsweetened, very dark chocolate, with a bit of spice, yes, a very, very light spiciness, a bit like low-calorie truffle chocolates; and there’s also a non-sweet vanillaness that pushes the scent into the dark season or into the evening, an evening that is not as hot as the evenings last summer … Can you follow me? … This is a long-lasting, almost a bit heavy, but never suffocatingly intense floral scent. But …” (Falls silent)

T: “Speak it out … no blinders. This is a safe space. No one else hears what we discuss.”

S: “… but all these technical descriptions - fragrance notes, longevity, sillage, envelope - do not explain what captivated me from the very first quiet moment with the scent, fascinated me, so that my thoughts begin to revolve around it, so that I don’t want a decant of it, but a bottle, so that its price is almost irrelevant to me, because I want it whole, very close and just for me. And I don’t care whether others smell it or not. I just want to wear it for myself. Because … not because I want to expand my collection. Not because I think it’s the most mass-appealing crowd-pleasing super long-lasting mind-blowing panty-dropping strength-of-the-roses Complimentizer, or the last spray of perfume art, or the missing piece of the puzzle … No, it’s a personal scent. I’ve heard that many other people feel the same way, albeit against different biographical-olfactory backgrounds and for different reasons. It’s a scent that connects with my own story, with my past, that is not only beautiful, noble, and high-quality, but above all, a scent FOR ME …”

T: “Hmm, mhh.”

S: “… I once had a girlfriend who could have sat here too, even though that’s not the topic. She had a poster hanging on her bedroom door, maybe of a band, or it was just a motif, I don’t remember exactly. It showed a young woman, probably still a teenager, long blond hair, loose, slender figure and small, pale skin, as if she had been embalmed in moonlight, in a black, tightly laced corset, deep burgundy painted full lips, the background deep black, blacker than night, a starless sky. Her facial expression somewhere between deep pain, longing, and desire, overlaid with rigid quiet fear. The poster was, of course, not hanging in my girlfriend’s room by chance. And that’s what Noir de Noir means to me: The memory of a feeling when looking at that picture in my girlfriend’s familiar room with its special scent, the feelings between us, our finite togetherness drifting through time. Noir de Noir, this heavy, suffering, erotic subtle rose scent could have been her scent, even though she didn’t have it; and because it could have been her scent and all of this means something to me, my thoughts now revolve around it and I want to have it, I don’t want it just as the latest catch, but as something meaningful, even though I can only speak for myself. Noir de Noir, dear therapist, stands for me for passionate decay, for pleasurable finitude. I have no better words. Perhaps what I mean lies beyond language.”

T: “Ah, I see, I see … Yes, thank you for being able to open up so much today. I’m afraid our time is now up. For today. But you know: After one night, a new day always follows. Until next time then. And watch your account balance.”

It all started quite differently for us than the usual love stories. For both of us, it was more like a spontaneous one-spray stand.

I met you online, on one of those free dating sites. In a scent-filled, perfumed narrow corridor, somewhere in the vastness of the digital sphere, someone wanted to share you. So I knew from the very beginning that I wasn’t your only one and wouldn’t remain so. It didn’t bother me.

Perhaps it was your proud glass Intrecciato body and your pale green, slightly glowing blood in the light that caught my attention. Yes, I just found you beautiful. And then there was your beautiful name with that beautiful last name. Quadrifoglio, (four-leaf) clover.

We chatted a bit, and I asked you what defined you and what you were into. As soon as I asked my questions, a fear arose in me that I might have been too forward and scared you off. You were a bit mysterious, silent, but I learned a little about you. That you were half-Italian, from a park near Vicenza, but also that you had a tattoo under your foot. You twisted and showed it to me: “Made in Spain” was the text. In an unnoticed moment, I perfumed myself and learned that your French dad (single parent?) is named Aurélien Guichard and has quite a few children, some of whom I had heard of before (Sole di Positano, Chinatown, and Eros). Maybe not the best family, but hey, I was only interested in you!

Even “Vogue” has published an article about your family, more specifically your brothers and sisters and your dad. And you are mentioned too: “(A) green-powdery stimulant (…). Rating: addictive!” Now that’s a statement!

I was fascinated. My expectation: to spend a few hours in green-creamy dolce far niente and maybe, if it fits, a friends-with-benefits situation. They usually fade away after a few days, weeks, or months anyway.

So I finally agreed to take you home with me on the very first evening. Well, what can I say? It turned out to be a fantastic evening.

I welcomed you at the apartment door, and you greeted me with a firm yet gentle hug. You smelled subtly fresh, clean, as if you had washed your hair and head with a bergamot shampoo. But there was something else. Mmh, green spiciness, slightly bitter, but not unpleasant, as if you had chewed on some basil leaves before our date because you read somewhere that it prevents bad breath. I liked that and invited you into the heart of my apartment.

In the living room on the comfortable couch, you quickly fell into my neck, and I wanted to carry you in my arms immediately. I no longer remember whether it was a Saturday or Sunday, but somehow I associate those long, cozy hours with a Catholic mass: what we had immediately felt like something significant, without me wanting to glorify our first meeting in hindsight.

It was simply what it was. I fell in love with your elegance and restraint right away, but also with your endurance, which is best noticed by giving you attention, as is the case with many other things in life.

“Give me more basil,” I said, and you gave.

Happily, we lay in each other's arms. You smiled gently. We chatted about trivial things, and I learned that money is unfortunately not entirely unimportant to you (which I forgave you in my budding infatuation).

And then finally this question arose: “Do we actually have a basis?” Uff, such fundamental questions so early, I thought, attributing it to your youth, and answered in my pleasant daze perhaps a bit cryptically: “It was beautiful with you from the very beginning; be as you are; you don’t need to play another role.” You understood that, my green spring love.

Unfortunately, you quickly ran out of steam. Although you do have such endurance. 5 ml seemed a bit scant to me.

“I’m fading,” you cried, and I got scared. “You look fantastic!” I shouted desperately, not knowing why I hadn’t asked better, “What do you say to having breakfast together tomorrow?” Never mind. You told me that there were others interested in you, men, but also women, gender relatively irrelevant, and that you weren’t monogamous, asking if I had a problem with that. And I said: “Bi? Pan? How wonderful! I’m not, but I’m not jealous either. I also live and spray by the motto: ‘Other flacons have great daughters too!’ You are not the only one in my life, and not my only love.”

You looked at me delighted and asked: “So are we officially together now?”

I held you in my arms and said, without thinking long, still enchanted by the last six, seven, eight hours: “Yes! Yes! - Just in case of a wedding, you might want to change your last name.”

PS: Please be gentle, my firstborn :)