Marieposa

Rarely have I encountered a perfume with such significant reservations as Lolita Lempicka. Untested, I had dismissed the scent as an Angel offspring - which it indeed is - and that is usually not my world. However, at some point, my enthusiasm for the enchanting bottle overcame my prejudices, and LL ended up on my wrist during a shopping trip at a well-known drugstore chain. After all, I wanted to make sure I could scrub it off as quickly as possible if needed.
My first impression was: Harmless. Phew. Lucky me. And as I maneuvered my shopping cart further between the shelves of toilet paper and dog food, I had almost forgotten the scent.

Until something incredible happened…

In my inner ear, Tchaikovsky played. First timidly, then more clearly, I heard chords from the Nutcracker, and before I knew what was happening, I transformed there, at the corner between baby wipes and dry shampoo, into the Sugar Fairy. A wonderfully transparent aura of herbal violet notes in conflict with the sugary sweetness of Amarena cherries and cotton candy clouds enveloped me, the glow of green accents and cool anise gave the dreaded gourmand patchouli an unknown lightness and freshness, only to gently land on a feathery pillow of iris and velvety violet.
In hindsight, I couldn't swear whether I truly and honestly rose to my tiptoes and danced ballet in the local drugstore that day.

What a cheerful, carefree scent! When I spray it on, it reliably brings a smile to my face. Despite all its sweetness and lightness, it is not lacking in depth, and with each wear, I discover new facets. The Tchaikovsky impression remains - sometimes as a classical ballet, sometimes in Duke Ellington's version.
LL has taught me that a perfume is more than the sum of its parts and that being a pyramid snob deprives one of some beautiful scent experiences. You can never know where hidden treasures await.

When the three wise men from the East make their appearance in Monty Python's classic "Life of Brian," gold and frankincense quickly win over the hospitality of Brian's shall we say "rather stern" mother. However, myrrh meets with similar skepticism as the esteemed visitors did before. Even the explanation that it is a valuable balm does not really convince her. Such a thing could be contagious, and she has heard of germs that have feelers and bite. The gentlemen are welcome to drop by anytime and leave gold and frankincense, but they should rather smear the myrrh in their hair next time.

As I sniff my generously perfumed wrist with Serge Lutens La Myrrhe, I realize that I feel quite similar to Brian's mother: Sure, I can imagine what gold smells like, and I can easily recall the scent of frankincense both in resin and smoke form from my olfactory memory. Myrrh, on the other hand, is a great mystery to me. I have read that it is a tree resin that mainly occurs in Somalia and is used for ceremonial and medicinal purposes as resin or oil. So much for the theory. But what does myrrh actually smell like?

Serge Lutens Myrrhe initially provides me with no answer; I can only say that this balm truly bites. What I have dabbed on my skin smells, at first, exclusively like the worst kind of hairspray. I’m talking about the stuff that hasn’t been sold for decades because it destroys the Earth’s atmosphere, and I only know it because my grandma still hoards remnants of it in the attic. Responsible for this is a salted portion of aldehydes that I don’t even recognize in this concentration from Chanel No 5. About fifteen minutes in, and the aldehydic meteor shower has settled, five more minutes pass, and I dare to bring my wrist to my nose again - and what a reward awaits me! Ice-cold, airy anise cookies, flavored with a hint of bitter almond oil, float towards me, paired with a citrusy glow. Am I being influenced by the orange color of the perfume, or do I really smell mandarin?

The scent is cool and spicy and silky. A golden glow emanates from it, as if one unexpectedly sees a campfire glowing in the distance during a walk on a frosty winter night, without feeling its warmth. Well, if myrrh smells like this, the three wise men can deposit their supplies, which Brian's mother has spurned, with me anytime! I can't stop sniffing my wrist. La Myrrhe is enchanting! But also demanding, complex, uncompromising, and so contrasting that its magic certainly does not reveal itself to everyone.

Would I wear La Myrrhe more often? Oh yes! Constantly, even. I gladly endure a few minutes of hairspray headache for this scent. I just prefer not to think about what happens if one makes the fatal mistake of spraying instead of dabbing.

… or rather "Welcome to the Coffee House"?

Freshly ground coffee is one of those scents that I absolutely love in everyday life, but I approach it with a healthy dose of skepticism when it comes to perfume for good reason. So far, every coffee perfume experience has left me with curled lips. Instead of fresh beans, I smelled coffee breath, instead of a coffee shop, unwashed breakfast dishes. I feel similarly about tuberose. I have one in a pot on the terrace and in summer, when it blooms - which it certainly doesn't do every year, the diva - I would love to set up a tent in the garden to enjoy the scent around the clock. In the bottle, however, all tuberose soliflores have left me somewhat perplexed - or completely overwhelmed. And even when it's just a note in a fragrance, tuberose has ruined more than one perfume for me.

Bad news for Café Tuberosa. One might think …

A bit hesitantly, I dab a drop from the sample onto my pulse, a door opens and sweeps me away along with a gust of rough December wind into a warm, cozy café. The true scent of freshly ground coffee beans fills the air, the coffee machine hisses behind the counter, and creamy, sweet delicacies tempt from the tiered stand. At the table in the corner sits an elegant woman in front of a piece of Sachertorte with whipped cream, a Small Black steaming in her cup. Everything is there, the indescribable coffee aroma, the muted chocolate sweetness, the wood of the floorboards, but also of the counter and the creamy scent of the white flowers on the connoisseur's table. Or is it her floral perfume rising from her décolletage and gently weaving with the other notes?
As the fragrance develops, the coffee slowly recedes but never completely disappears. Patchouli is listed and may contribute to this illusion in the base. The flowers gradually take over the helm. Tuberose? I don't know. Rose? Hmm … I imagine more of a tropical fantasy flower. Or even coffee blossoms?
Although I wouldn't necessarily describe Café Tuberosa as a gourmand fragrance, it always retains something edible, creamy, delicious, without ever losing the brightness of an Eau de Cologne.

While I am fascinatedly sniffing my arm and completely forgetting to grind coffee for Sunday breakfast, the question gnaws at me how long I can stretch this sample so that this beautiful, light-hearted scent accompanies me for as long as possible.

I have read a lot about Ormonde Woman, and that was long before I finally got to know the fragrance: witch's brew, dark fir, seductive poison - that's roughly the essence. Linda Pilkington, the founder and soul of Ormonde Jayne, personally paints the picture of a fairy-tale figure who hides her raven-black hair under a cape to secretly rush to her lover at night with a vial of this magic potion in her pocket. Ms. Pilkington remains silent about the intentions of the beauty. Tania Sanchez also promises - like many others - a dark witch's forest, where behind fir branches, cedarwood, and oak moss, the amber sweetness of a gingerbread house is concealed.

I had to experience this green poison. Absolutely. That much was clear.

For the first time, I encountered OW while on the prowl in a large niche perfumery. Balancing ten test strips in my hand, my pulse, wrists, and inner elbows already sprayed with other fragrances, and without the help of the friendly sales assistant, I wouldn't have even been able to get the cap off the bottle - yes, such a life as a perfumista is not always easy... In retrospect, it’s no wonder that the Aha effect I had hoped for from the fragrance was absent.
Recently, I found a few drops of the green magic elixir as a bonus in my fragrance mail - a heartfelt thank you to the noble donor! - and the first spray truly transported me to an enchanted forest. But the surprise was great: no trace of Grimm's fairy tales, no darkly looming fir trees, and no beautiful witch with the deadly brew in her coat pocket. Instead, I found myself in a sun-drenched mixed forest. Bright, friendly, and warm. The hemlocks listed multiple times in the pyramid I only know from Twin Peaks, and I have no idea how they smell. In OW, I perceive them as sun-warmed pines. Here, the owls are exactly what they seem. Instead of mushrooms, violets and liverworts grow from the dry ground - and if there really is a little house in the darker depths of the forest, it is not inhabited by an evil witch, but by a group of helpful dwarfs.

I usually have my buying reflex well under control, but in this case, I had to grab it. Quickly. Immediately. Without hesitation. And while the transparent scent of my enchanted forest envelops me, I smile to myself - but who knows, maybe I am the witch who wants to cast a spell on lonely wanderers in this forest...

Golden rays of sunshine dance through my room in the cozy white wooden house perched on a cliff above the Atlantic. Their warm light wakes me, and I push aside the freshly washed sheets with the embroidery. The white curtains billow into the room, and the gentle morning breeze carries the scent of herbs and sea inside. The air is still fresh, but you can already feel that it will be a warm day.
Time to get up! I stretch, stand up, and walk barefoot through the damp grass in the garden. There, I sit at the wrought-iron table with the ornate chairs and drink a cup of tea. My gaze sinks into the blue of the sea, and in the distance, a ship passes by. Someone has baked cake in the house; the delicate vanilla intertwines with the scent of the summer breeze. I hear dishes clattering and soft laughter.
I lean back and breathe deeply with a smile. This moment is entirely mine. Life can be so simple.

No other fragrance evokes a holiday mood for me like "Salina." The scent relaxes me, lifts my spirits, and has a wonderfully calming effect - almost like a perfect summer morning by the sea.
The sillage is impressive, although I find the scent rather delicate. The longevity is fantastic - the warm aura wafts from my clothes into the late evening hours. Unfortunately, I cannot perceive the lavender that I love so much, but instead, I smell a delicate note of woodruff, which fits beautifully into the overall picture.