Florin

First of all, I would like to sincerely thank Ergoproxy once again for providing this sample. It was a bull's-eye.

When you browse the Humiecki & Graef website for Bosque, you are shown images of two people. Neither particularly beautiful, but neither are they in any way ugly. And both are, apart from the most charming spots (here white bed linen is prominently displayed), completely naked, just as God (here in the form of the photographer) created them.

But Bosque does not smell like beautiful, fresh, flower-pure bed linen. In this lovely blend, there is a little more hidden:
You have spent the whole day at the beach. Of course, you have diligently applied sunscreen. At some point, however, in the late afternoon, it gets too hot in the sun, so you retreat with your lounge chair under the sunshade, skeptically checking your still barely existent tan and looking a bit longingly out at the sea. You hear the waves crashing, you smell the subtle salty note in the breeze that the sea carries with it. Finally, you sit up on your lounge chair, burying your toes a little in the fine sand. A few pages of the book you brought along are still read, but rather half-heartedly. Soon enough, it’s enough, and you head back to the room. Undouched, a little sandy, sweaty, and flattened from sweet idleness, you throw yourself onto the bed, channel surf a bit, and finally doze off, just for half an hour. Maybe a whole one.

Eventually, you give in to the necessity of showering, using After Sun, heading to the buffet, and finally diving into the nightlife.

Suddenly, the next morning, very fine and fleeting, as elusive as the kitten at the bowl of cream, you suddenly find the scent of Bosque. Only when the sun manages to tickle you awake, when the anticipation of freshly squeezed orange juice, sweet pineapple, and juicy watermelon for breakfast lures you out of bed much earlier than usual, does it reveal itself. Then the scent of still fresh, white, starched bed linen, the sea air, the remnants of sunscreen and sweat that you brought with you from dozing the day before, and the fleeting traces of last night’s perfume unite into this sweet, soft, creamy mélange that has been captured in this fragrance.

It is exceptionally beautiful, but exciting? Erotic? No. Unless, of course, you suddenly discover a not yet familiar face in the tangle of sheets next to you. Oh yes... last night at the beach bar, the blond surfer boy/the yoga instructor with long black hair had suddenly asked what kind of outrageously beautiful scent you were wearing. Oh, breakfast can wait a moment longer...

*Erasmus of Rotterdam

I don't quite like being the first to comment on a fragrance. You stand so alone in the wide field. But if it is as beautiful as this one...
Last week, sprayed on a paper strip, it was quite okay. The next day on the skin, yes, sure. That worked. 50% off. Definitely worth it. But today, when it was worn out for the first time, well...

...yes, suddenly I opened the double-winged wooden door and stepped inside, inside the Café Sperl, 6th district, Gumpendorfer Straße. Even if only in thought, they were all back: the waiters, of course in tuxedos, as is fitting for a house with tradition. The gentlemen scholars, those who carry their somewhat worn copy of Kafka's "The Trial" and read it publicly, the students at the karambole tables.

One takes a deep breath and smells something dignified in the fragrance. The strong, spicy coffee, freshly ground at the counter, almost dissipates with the first spray. That's not a problem, because milk is already being added to the cup. Warm and frothed. A pinch of sugar added. And gradually, the scent of the perfect milk coffee unfolds. Warm and soft, there are hints of caramel, perhaps coming from the warmed milk. Now and then, one thinks a creamy vanilla peeks out for just a moment. A very light acidity resonates. Or is it a delicate fruity or floral component? It's hard to say, it seems too shy. The fact is, however, that it beautifully and harmoniously rounds off the bouquet of the milk coffee.

Later, much later, after one has already let an entire afternoon pass by, with not much more than gazing at the Art Deco chandeliers, at the newspaper holders where the press was precisely speared, indeed at the golden times of K. u. k. itself, the spicy-earthy scent of the coffee lightly dissipates and becomes clearer, more floral. The indicated rose certainly contributes its share.

One can spend a lot, a lot of time with this beautiful work from Diptyque; it doesn't leave you quickly. Applied at 7:00 AM this morning, it is still present and wraps around the finger.

The fragrance fits perfectly in spring when one can finally sit outside on the promenade. In autumn, one can enjoy the last rays of sunshine with it, in winter cuddle on the fur in front of the fireplace. In high summer, it might be a bit too warm. Then better a spritz.

How extremely regrettable that the fragrance is apparently being taken off the market. So quickly, one last sip. One final sip...

Following this invitation, I was led to a stream in the most beautiful, balmy air. The green, lush meadow so inviting, to sit down, lean back, and listen to the gentle rustling and splashing of the innocent little stream. Of course, also to inhale the wonderful air. But what else is in it? Violets, the wind whispers in my ear, violets! Really? Are those violets? Mh, maybe. Much more, however, I now believe I recognize that right next to me stand pear trees. Pear trees that bear ripe, almost overripe, in any case golden glowing and intoxicatingly fragrant fruits. So juicy, it would be a shame not to take a bite. Much more than the whispered violets, which surely bloom here and there on the wild meadow, this scent reminds me of pears. Pears are not my favorite fruit, yet I find myself compelled to linger, to enjoy, as long as it lasts.

I want to rise, reach for the fruits, I open my eyes...it's all an illusion! There is no stream. No meadow. No trees. It has become much warmer. No wonder. I am right in the middle of a city. Which one is it? Istanbul? If so, then I am sitting here on the shores of the Bosphorus, which enticingly rushes past me. If I look to the side, I see how the pear trees transform into wild lavender bushes. They too allure and tempt, inviting me to linger. Why not? It is so warm, even under the white linen shirt one begins to sweat lightly. So I stay, lean back again, close my eyes once more, surrendering with a sigh to the pulsating sensuality of the Orient.

It is evening, isn’t it? But where do the rhythms come from? Shouldn’t it be cooling down? I open my eyes again. There is no lilac anymore. No more Bosphorus. For waves are crashing on the beach where I stand. No, where I dance. With others who have kindled a fire, who brought beer and wine and music, and now, in the sultry evening heat and the warmth of the fire, celebrate, laugh, drink. The lilac? Somewhere, yes. But someone has already grabbed my wrist and is pulling me away. Further and further into the dunes, into the woods that grow there. The other hand of the stranger is already beginning to impatiently open the few remaining buttons of the linen shirt, pushing me, having arrived in the thicket, the music only faintly reaches my ears, into the sand, to let the day fade away here and enjoy the rest of the night.

May I travel with you again tomorrow?

Since the Easter Bunny was kind enough to leave me, among other things, a tester of Boss Orange, I would like to share a few quick initial impressions in my first comment. A complete review would require a more in-depth examination.

Right from the start, one notices what is often criticized about Boss: it doesn't smell authentic. One could certainly say that there is no orange in it. But it smells orange. That doesn't necessarily mean it has to smell like orange.

One must concede that the individual components of the fragrance are very finely intertwined. There are no rough edges where the nose could get caught. However, nothing from this scent will linger in the nose either. Nothing beyond a refreshing, light day at the office or a fleeting, hot and sultry party night.

But that doesn't seem to be Boss's intention at all. One doesn't compose the Ring of the Nibelungs every day. Sometimes it’s “just” Für Elise. Not every party is so legendary that in five years, friends will still rave about it over red wine. However, this does not diminish the enjoyment in the moment. With this fragrance, that enjoyment is almost guaranteed. It would be surprising if no one commented on Boss Orange. It is simply too pleasing and approachable; exactly as it was conceived. Class goal achieved.

Now, as I sniff again after noting my first impressions, isn't there a hint of Hugo coming through?