Ciubie

400 euros. That's how much my brother and I made on a scorching hot summer's day with our flea market stall, where we sold old junk all day long. The day was long, the sun was merciless and when we finally packed up in the evening, we laughed tears over my completely absurd sunburn. A bright red line had appeared between my ballerinas and 7/8 leggings (don't castigate me, it was so fashionable back then) - as if I was wearing bright red socks.

After we had finally calmed down, we thought about what we should do with the money. The deliberation lasted almost exactly 15 seconds, when my brother shouted: "We're going to Milan for a weekend!"

Abracadabra - so be it.

And so, a few weeks later, we landed in a city that was both chaotic and elegant. We strolled through narrow streets, were overwhelmed by the size of the cathedral, ate pizza with anchovies and, above all, marveled at the Milanese themselves.
Without exception, everyone was perfectly styled, young and old, despite the shimmering heat.
We looked down at ourselves, at my sock tan and our sweaty shirts and decided to change our clothes.

After a short time, I discovered a small shoe store. A boutique. No, more than that - a leather manufacturer of the finest kind. My gaze lingered on a pair of cream-colored pumps in the shop window. I entered, mesmerized.

The store smelled of freshly tanned leather, animalistic and slightly floral, presumably from the impregnations used, with a hint of vanilla, whose warm oil over a burning candle tried to fight the animalism. An elderly gentleman greeted me with a knowing smile in broken English.
"Calfskin," he said, carefully lifting the shoes out of the shop window. "I only have this one pair, try them on."

I slipped them on and felt it immediately - they didn't just fit, they were mine. The leather was as soft as butter, hugging my feet as if it had been made for them. I took a few steps. Everything was right.

I nodded, the shoemaker nodded. "They'll be with you for a very, very long time."
He turned out to be right.

Over 15 years later, on my wedding day, I stood in front of the mirror in my wedding dress and knew: it could only be these shoes. So many memories were now attached to them, so many nights full of passion, travels, adventures, stories that life just wrote.
As I walked down the aisle with them, I had a big smile on my face (also because of them).

I love these shoes. I love their scent, which they haven't lost in all these years.

And that's exactly how Animalique smells - like this small leather manufacturer in Milan. Like the moment I found them. My shoes.

Animalique smells different than the name suggests. Not raw or animalistic, but like precious, finest suede. The softest leather notes, supple and delicate, enveloped by delicate flowers and a soft, caressing, woody vanilla, which is not listed but I can detect.
Professional, but at the same time whispers of effortless sensuality, perhaps even eroticism.
The longevity is good, not overwhelming. For the first 4 hours, this perfume is very noticeable, then it flashes up from time to time and you can experience the fragrance anew and remember. Oh, there was something. It stays like that all day, which I find heavenly. If I had found this fragrance sooner, it would have been available sooner - I would have worn it to my wedding.

It's just shoes. But is it really just shoes?

It wasn't that I didn't feel like visiting my great-grandmother - okay, maybe a little. As a child, you just don't think that meeting a 92-year-old lady is going to be the highlight of the day. But what can I say? The apple pie made up for it. More on that later.

It was one of only a few meetings with my great-grandmother Johanna, and also the last one, and the setting alone could have come from one of those films in which old family stories suddenly unfold into great ladies.

We met in deepest Bavaria in her apartment on the 12th floor of a high-rise building - a typical concrete block from a time when people thought big gray walls were the future. But the balcony? Breathtakingly beautiful! The view looked as if it had been painted for a postcard. Sunshine, mountains with snow on the peaks, forests below and lots of cows doing their thing.

My great-grandma was taciturn, almost a little intimidating. No affectionate chatter, no "Oh child, how big you've become.". She had that look on her face that people get when they've solved more problems in life than they've baked cakes. At least that's what I thought at the time.

Let's start at the beginning, before we even entered this legendary balcony, she dragged me into a store for traditional costume fashion that tailored and sold dirndls. I, a North German to the tips of my hair, have never been more of a tourist than in this place. My great-grandmother marched in, fixed a saleswoman with her penetrating gaze and less than 10 minutes later I was holding a dirndl in my hand. No one argued, no one asked if I wanted it. It was simply clear: I'm getting one now.

In the changing room, I tried to squeeze into the dress on my own. Somewhere - for whatever reason - there was still a pin in it and I stepped on it, barefoot. Ouch. Blood dripped onto the already red carpet (probably for that very reason) and I whimpered a little while Great-Grandma waited outside with her arms crossed. I showed her the sole of my bleeding foot and she shrugged her shoulders. "Yeah, so? It'll pass." No sympathy, no plaster. Instead: "Come on, we're having apple pie."

When we arrived at the apartment, the cake was already in the oven. She had prepared it before we had even set off, as if she had suspected that things would somehow escalate with me in this store. It smelled so heavenly, I would have voluntarily stayed with her for a week for that smell alone. Cinnamon, apple, butter, the perfect fragrance therapy.
With a wave of her hand, she gestured for me to sit down. "Eat!" she ordered as she finally placed the cake steaming on the table of her fabulous balcony.

And then we sat there, twelve stories up, in the middle of this gray skyscraper, yet floating above it all. The apple pie was dangerously good, it was a masterpiece. Juicy, soft, sweet and sour apples, perfectly distributed raisins, as if she had measured their distance with a ruler, a hint of caramel and a buttery base, crispy and soft at the same time. I'm not exaggerating, it was an absolute revelation.
I plucked up my courage and said: "This is the best apple pie I've ever eaten." She just raised an eyebrow, as if I had stated the obvious. No praise for her own baking skills, just a quick nod and a curt "the recipe is old."
That was it for conversation that day and we ate until the sun slowly set over the picturesque mountains and the lights came on in the small town.

That's how she was, great-grandma Johanna. Tough, taciturn, scary - but with an apple pie that made all words superfluous. Sometimes the best memories are on a plate.

I smell Jany and I'm there again: on this huge concrete block almost above the clouds, which even the bottle reminds me of, with a foot that hurts a little and a smile that I hid well back then, but was there nonetheless. I even interpret the name Jany as a version of Johanna, because it fits so nicely into the overall picture. Jany smells like steaming, warm apple pie. So real that it's hard to believe that it's just a scent and not a real cake. It's the most beautiful, authentic gourmand I've ever smelled. Almost too real.

The best apple pie of my life, captured in this perfume.

Many years ago, I had a colleague called Carmina. I had never heard this name before, and Carmina was somehow special in other ways too. Lots of make-up, lots of scent, a loud voice, always up to date in her style of dress. Carmina could sell. Especially herself.
Although we were never really friends, just colleagues, I thought she was cool.



It was a hectic morning in the office, there was hot coffee on the tables, the phones were ringing incessantly. Keyboard clattering. Just at that moment, when silence was not expected, the door opened and Carmina floated into the room. It was like it was starting to rain glitter, honestly.

"Sorry, I'm late. Broke my rim on the curb, had a little rendezvous with the sidewalk!" and her voice was again an octave louder than necessary. Her Range Rover, known for its countless dents and dings, was parked crookedly in front of the office building.

At some point, I asked her why the car looked like that. She laughed out loud, a real Carmina laugh. "My time management is a disaster!" she explained. "I'm chaos on wheels!"

From that moment on, I really took her to my heart. This confession only made her even more endearing. She wasn't perfect, and that's exactly what made her so fascinating. Because in a world where everyone strives for perfection, Carmina was a refreshing reminder that life - and people - can be beautiful even in their imperfections.



Years later, when I held a sample of Carmina in my hands as part of a package, I had to smile. Of course, I had only asked for it because of the name. And in a particularly beautiful way, this fragrance suits her very well. When I wore it for the first time, I was overwhelmed by a wave of memories.

The perfume starts off synthetically, saffron, pepper or ambroxenide perhaps? It could also be cashmere wood. It's a start that might put some people off. Admittedly, I like it in low doses.
But what then unfolds is simply astonishingly beautiful. The perfect fusion of La Petite Robe Noire (2012) Eau de Parfum (but here without the almond) and Delina Exclusif.

A very warm and somehow three-dimensional cherry-rose fragrance develops. Very sensual, but does not drift off into party cherries, but remains elegant. It really is as if Carmina herself has been captured in this bottle. Complex, chaotic, but ultimately deeply impressive.

Carmina lasts a very long time on my skin and clothes. Definitely until the next shower or wash.
I also love the bottle. It's a really beautiful dark pink.

-

It took me a few sprays before I learned to love this perfume, but now I can never get it out of my head. Just like my former colleague,

Carmina.

For the first time since we've had children, we're going away on our own for a weekend.
We haven't done that for four years.

We chose a hotel right by the sea. Four seasons. Breakfast, wellness, the sea and finally being a couple again, not just parents.
Our faces were already glowing during the car journey because we were having such a good time and couldn't stop smiling.
We're in love, like two teenagers going away for the first time without mom and dad. Yes, that's pretty much how we feel.

We arrive at the hotel in the biggest storm. It's storming and raining cats and dogs. You've taken our rain jackets with you because you're a fox and I married you because you always think for yourself.
Into our partner-look tour jackets, hood up and off to adventure.

we walk 10 km along the beach, we have so much to say to each other.

Oh, a perfumery!
We go in and I discover great treasures, Hoja de Cuba is my choice to remind me of this great weekend.

You know those round amerettini cookies that always sit next to the latte bowl on the saucer, hoping not to be spurned?
That's what this scent smells like. Biscuity, a little amaretto. Amarena sundae. Wintery, soft and creamy. I don't recognize any of the fragrance notes that are listed.
This fragrance is unfathomable, very soft and special, very cuddly. Sweet, woody, a cherry marzipan dessert.
It is the pure contrast to this rainy, cold weekend. But still so fitting. The contradiction fits wonderfully and I remember it so fondly whenever I wear Hoja de Cuba.

Perhaps the time off and my infatuation have made it a little bit softer and more beautiful than it actually is, but most things in the world are more beautiful than they actually are when you're happy.

It was a gloomy December, rain pattered incessantly against the window panes, crowds of people pushed their way through the overcrowded shopping arcades to buy their last Christmas presents. And I was one of them that day. The frustrated, wet people who had once again waited too long to do everything. Like every year.

The scent of Christmas is drowned out by the hustle and bustle and in the midst of this hustle and bustle I feel like a lonely wanderer in a sea of haste and noise.

I am handed a sample in front of a perfumery. Gisada, aha. Never heard of it before. And so, full of disinterest, a spray on my scarf and the sample far down into the crumbly depths of my handbag.

Suddenly, a gentle breeze permeated the air, enveloping me like a warm blanket. I put my handbag down, dug out the sample and sprayed another one, this time on my skin. What elegance, what spring-like, light sensuality on a day that could not have been less spring-like and sensual.
Despite the hustle and bustle around me, I felt at one with this fragrance.

I find the name, color scheme and target audience extremely unfortunate choices for this fragrance and see this as the reasons for its poor rating. In my opinion, Royal is distinctly feminine, light, spring-like floral, with a light suede coloring that gives it an incredibly exciting, grown-up edge. Hardly any oud. Cuddly, but you feel clearly perfumed.

For me, this perfume embodies everything I want from a fragrance. Absolute calm, my holy grail, my zen. Wearable in the evening, at work, at bedtime.
Royal melts into my skin as if it were made just for me. Or as if it was made for everyone who sometimes needs to lose themselves for a moment and find their way back.

My first review is of a fragrance that I am not allowed to call my own because it is simply too expensive for me. And yet I would like to claim to have tested it extensively. Because whenever I can get hold of a sample of Royal, it comes to me. And with every new sample, my longing for you grows, dear Royal, and one day a bottle of you will move in with me.

Because I am irrevocably in love.