Ciubie

400 euros. That’s how much my brother and I made on a blisteringly hot summer day at our flea market stand, where we sold old junk all day long. The day was long, the sun relentless, and when we finally packed up in the evening, we laughed tears over my completely absurd sunburn. Between my ballerinas and the 7/8 leggings (don’t judge me, that was the fashion back then), a bright red line had formed - as if I were wearing bright red socks.

After we finally calmed down, we considered what to do with the money. The consideration lasted exactly 15 seconds when my brother exclaimed, “We’re flying to Milan for a weekend!”

Abracadabra - so be it.

And so, a few weeks later, we landed in a city that was chaotic and elegant at the same time. We strolled through narrow streets, were overwhelmed by the size of the cathedral, ate pizza with anchovies, and were especially amazed by the Milanese themselves.
Everyone was impeccably styled, young and old, despite the sweltering heat. We looked down at ourselves, at my sock tan and our sweaty shirts, and decided to refresh our wardrobe.

Soon after, I discovered a small shoe shop. A boutique. No, more than that - a leather workshop of the finest kind. My gaze was caught by a pair of cream-colored pumps in the window. Hypnotized, I stepped inside.

The shop smelled of freshly tanned leather, animalistic and slightly floral, probably from the treatments used, with a hint of vanilla, whose warm oil was trying to combat the animalic scent over a burning candle. An older gentleman greeted me with a knowing smile in broken English.
“Calf leather,” he said, carefully lifting the shoes out of the window. “I have only this one pair, try them on.”

I slipped them on and felt it immediately - they not only fit, they belonged to me. The leather was buttery soft, wrapping around my feet as if it were made for them. I took a few steps. Everything was perfect.
I nodded, the shoemaker nodded. “These will accompany you for a very, very long time.”
He was right.

Over 12 years later, on my wedding day, I stood in my wedding dress in front of the mirror and knew: it could only be these shoes. So many memories were attached to them by now, so many nights full of passion, travels, adventures, stories that life wrote.
As I walked down the aisle with my beloved brother by my side, I had (also because of them) a broad smile on my face. I love these shoes. I love their scent, which they have not lost over the years.

And that’s exactly how Animalique smells - like that little leather workshop in Milan. Like the moment I found them. My shoes.

Animalique smells different than the name suggests. Not raw or animalic, but like noble, finest suede. The softest leather notes, smoothly delicate, enveloped by gentle flowers and a quiet, caressing, woody vanilla that is not listed, but I perceive it.
Professional, yet whispering of effortless sensuality, perhaps even eroticism.
The longevity is good, not overwhelming. For the first 4 hours, this perfume is very noticeable, after that it flares up every now and then, allowing you to experience the scent anew and remember. Ah, there was something. It stays like that all day, which I find heavenly. If I had found this scent earlier, if it had existed earlier - I would have worn it to my wedding.

They are just shoes. But are they really just shoes?

It wasn't that I didn't want to visit my great-grandmother... okay, maybe a little. As a child, you don't think that a meeting with an 89-year-old lady will be the highlight of your day. But what can I say? The apple pie made it all worthwhile. More on that later.

It was one of only a few meetings with my great-grandmother Johanna, and also the last, and the setting could have come straight out of one of those movies where old family stories suddenly unfold into great dramas. While the big drama didn't happen, this day etched itself into my memory.

We met in the depths of Bavaria in her apartment on the 12th floor of a high-rise, one of those typical concrete blocks from a time when people thought big gray walls were the future. But the balcony? Breathtakingly beautiful! The view looked like it had been painted for a postcard. Sunshine breaking through cotton clouds, mountains with snow on their peaks, forests below, gently flowing streams, and plenty of cows going about their business.

My great-grandmother was quiet, almost a bit intimidating. No loving chatter, no "Oh dear, how much you've grown." She had that look that people get when they've solved more problems in life than they've baked cakes. At least, that's what I thought at that time.

Let's start from the beginning: Before we even stepped onto that legendary balcony, she dragged me into a store for traditional folk costumes that tailored and sold dirndls. I, a North German to the core, had never felt more like a tourist than in that place. My great-grandmother marched in, fixed a saleswoman with her piercing gaze, and not ten minutes later, I was holding a dirndl. No one discussed it, no one asked if I wanted it. It was just clear: I was getting one.
Today I know it was a gift for my school enrollment and must have been incredibly expensive. As a child, you don't appreciate such things.

In the changing room, I tried to squeeze myself into the dress alone. For some reason (probably due to the handmade nature), there was still a needle in it, and I stepped on it, barefoot. Ouch. Blood dripped onto the already red carpet (probably exactly for this reason), and I whimpered a bit while great-grandma waited outside with her arms crossed. I showed her my bleeding sole, and she shrugged. "Yeah, so? It'll pass." No sympathy, no band-aid. Instead: "Come on, there's apple pie."

Once we arrived at the apartment, the cake was already in the oven. She had prepared it before we even left, as if she had sensed that things would escalate with me in that store. It smelled heavenly; I would have willingly stayed with her for a week just for that scent. Cinnamon, apple, butter, the perfect scent therapy.
With a waving hand gesture, she indicated for me to sit down. "Eat!" she commanded as she finally placed the steaming cake on the table of her fabulous balcony.

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

That's how she was, great-grandma Johanna. Tough, quiet, intimidating, but with an apple pie that made all words unnecessary. The best memories sometimes lie on a plate.

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

This lovely, fruity, buttery heart note lasts about 4 hours, after which it merges with the skin into a scent of cookie-vanilla dough. Almond also becomes very present here, somewhat marzipan-like. Still extremely high quality, by no means sticky sweet. However, at this point, the scent becomes interchangeable, and it could also be Black Tie, Vanilla West Indies, and so on. After about 6-8 hours, it becomes very close to the skin and now forms a warm, enveloping aura.

Jany is a winter fragrance for me. It smells festive, warm, perhaps even comforting. I wouldn't want to wear it at temperatures above 10 degrees; then it becomes a burden.

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

Many years ago, I had a colleague named Carmina. I had never heard that name before, and Carmina was somehow special. Lots of makeup, lots of fragrance, a loud voice, and a clothing style always up to date. Carmina could sell. Above all, she could sell herself.
Although we were never really friends, just colleagues, I thought she was cool.

-

It was a hectic morning in the office, hot coffee on the desks, phones ringing incessantly. The sound of typing. Just at that moment, when you least expected it, the door opened and Carmina floated into the room. It was as if glitter started to rain, honestly.

“Sorry, I’m late. I damaged 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 scratches, was parked crookedly in front of the office building.

At some point, I asked her why the car looked like that. She laughed loudly, 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 heart. This confession made her even more lovable. She was not perfect, and that was 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 imperfection.

-

Years later, when I held a sample of Carmina in my hands as a gift in 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 synthetic, maybe saffron, pepper, or ambroxan? It could also be cashmere wood. It’s a start that might put some off. Admittedly, I like it at this low dosage.
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.

It develops into a very warm and somehow three-dimensional cherry-rose scent. Very sensual, but it doesn’t drift off into party cherries, instead, it remains elegant. It really feels as if you’ve captured Carmina herself in this bottle. Complex, chaotic, but ultimately deeply impressive.

On my skin and my clothes, Carmina lasts a very long time. Definitely until the next shower, or laundry.
I also find the bottle quite wonderful. It’s a really beautiful, dark pink.

-

It took me a few sprays to fall in love with this perfume, but now it never leaves my mind. Just like my former colleague,

Carmina.

For the first time since we have children, we are going away for a weekend alone.
We haven't done this for four years.

We chose a hotel right by the sea. Four seasons. Breakfast, wellness, sea, and finally being a couple again, not just parents.
Even during the drive, our faces are glowing because we are having such a great conversation and can't stop smiling.
We are in love, like two teenagers going away for the first time without mom and dad. Yes, that's exactly how we feel.

We arrive at the hotel in the midst of a huge storm. It's howling and raining in torrents. You brought our rain jackets because you are clever, and I married you also because you always think ahead.
Into our matching tourist jackets, hoods up, and off to the adventure.

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

Oh, a perfume shop!
We go in, and I discover wonderful treasures; Hoja de Cuba is my choice, meant to remind me of this lovely weekend.

Do you know those round Amaretti cookies that always sit next to the milk coffee cup on the saucer, hoping not to be neglected?
That's what this scent smells like. Cookie-like, a bit of Amaretto. Amarena ice cream sundae. Wintry, soft, and creamy. I don't recognize any of the listed notes in it.
This fragrance is unfathomable, very gentle 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 love to look back whenever I wear Hoja de Cuba.

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

It was a dreary December, rain was incessantly pounding against the windows, crowds of people were pushing through the overcrowded shopping arcades to pick up last-minute Christmas gifts. And I was one of them that day. The frustrated, wet folks who had once again waited too long for everything. Just like every year.

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

In front of a perfume shop, a sample is handed to me. Gisada, ah. Never heard of it. And so, with complete disinterest, a spritz lands on my scarf and the sample sinks deep into the crumbly depths of my handbag.

Suddenly, a delicate whisper penetrates the air, wrapping around me like a warm blanket. Handbag set down, sample fished out, another spritz, this time on my skin. What elegance, what a 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 one with this scent.

I find the name, the color scheme, and the target audience extremely unfortunate for this fragrance and see this as the reason for its poor rating. It also smells very synthetic; I love synthetics, but I understand that it can be off-putting. But a 5-star rating does you wrong, dear Royal.

In my opinion, Royal is clearly feminine, light, spring-like-floral, painted with bright suede that gives it an incredibly exciting, mature edge. Also a distinct violet. Hardly any oud. Soft, but you definitely feel perfumed.

For me, this perfume truly embodies a lot of what I wish for in a fragrance. Absolute tranquility, my holy grail, my zen. Wearable in the evening, at work, before going to sleep.
Royal merges with my skin as if it were made just for me. Or as if it were made for everyone who sometimes needs to lose themselves briefly and find their way back.

My first review happens to be about a fragrance that I cannot even call my own because it is simply too expensive for me. And yet, I would like to claim that I have tested it extensively. Because whenever I can get my hands on a sample of Royal, it comes to me. And with each additional sample, my longing for you grows, dear Royal, and someday a bottle of you will find its way to me.

Because I am irrevocably in love.