Nezdoux

As students, we spent our free time by the Isar. On weekends, we often stayed overnight. During the day, we jumped naked into the water, slept, trudged to the kiosk for a few wheat beers, or had some important topic at hand. At night, a fire burned, grilling food crackled on sticks or the grill, there was more beer, smoke, and usually someone whose name you knew or didn’t know was there to cuddle with. After all, the fire only warmed you from the front.

At some point, we had to head home again, loaded our seven things onto our bikes, and pedaled through the scorching hot city with headaches. The well-ordered parental home offered a contradictory contrast to the wild life under the open sky. Tight, but also clean with a fluffy down comforter. First, a shower.

That was the moment when, out of nowhere, the scent of the past days suddenly manifested itself clearly. You olfactorily stood out drastically from your surroundings: the greasy loess of the cooled smoke, fatty, like a properly smoked ham, ash in your hair, coal on your face, thoroughly soaked with the herbal smoke of the fresh willow branches we had gathered in the Isar meadows for our fire. But also the sun on your face, wild hair, the memory of the protective firmament full of shining stars above us, the hot kisses in the clouds of smoke, the serious conversations about the deep topics of existence by the philosophically crackling fire.

Just like this moment, right before turning on the shower, Terroni smells.

But do I want to smell like that? Intentionally? Without the days-long smoking process by the river? Now? Almost four decades later? To wear to the office blazer? No. To the outdoor outfit in the mountains? Not that either. For a Sunday walk along the Isar? Never! On the neck of a man who tells stories of past days in a rough voice, who makes plans for a kayaking trip along the twists of some Canadian wild river? Yes, why not?

A sacrament is a rite that makes a visible sign of an invisible reality of God present and allows participation in it.

"Sacraments must be felt," writes Pastor Rainer Maria Schießler in his book "Heaven, God, Sacrament." Not, as taught in priest training, to carefully dip a thumb in the chrism oil for a baptism and mark a cross on the child's forehead, only to immediately remove it with a cotton ball pinched between the index and middle fingers, but rather to generously anoint the head and body of the new earth citizen with a proper dollop of wonderfully fragrant chrism oil.

Apparently, I was baptized in a methodologically correct way, as I do not remember the scent of the chrism, but I imagine it to be like Terrasse a St. Germain by Jul et Mad. Anointing is thus the main theme of the fragrance, as well as the untouched, innocence, naivety, and holiness of new life. Security - being carried by the floral, creamy nuances of the scent on its patchouli base. Gently surrounded by holiness, like the soft fluttering of angel wings, which surely especially love and frequently visit those baptisms where the pastor does not skimp on the chrism.

I find it a bit difficult to connect the name of the fragrance with its texture. The image of a terrace on the Seine island of St. Germain in Paris emerges, surrounded by an ochre-colored clay wall covered with lush, colorful flowers. The fragrance rather sings of the warm, radiant clay wall in the gentle autumn sun than the flowers dreaming away there. Imperceptibly, sand trickles from the hand-formed clay bricks made a few hundred years ago, reminding us that the invisible reality of God is always and everywhere around us.

Stockholm, Arlanda. I'm sniffing around to kill some time. A promotion for the Clean perfume line draws me in like a magnet. I've never seen it before. Oh, what wonderfully clean scents!

Quickly, "Warm Cotton" becomes my favorite. At that time, my life had gone terribly off the rails. My soulmate had suddenly and far too early departed from this planet, which meant I had to change continents. I longed for security and order. In particular, I was not ready for advances from male beings.

In my mind's eye, the image of a laundry room on a farm in the Midwest of America emerges. A plump black mama in a starched white apron is seriously ironing bed sheets made of heavy, solid cotton, which she then neatly folds and stacks into an orderly pile. She hums a gospel. Sunlight breaks through the fine dust. The scent of Warm Cotton permeates everything.

A few weeks later, I'm in Vienna with a friend's mother. We stroll through the streets of the old town and sit down in a coffee house. "Mhm, it smells so good here," the older lady remarks.

Shortly thereafter, I encounter a well-known Casanova from my circle of acquaintances. He kisses me on the cheeks in greeting and recoils in horror: "What is that odor that surrounds you, my dear, like sandpaper?"

Bingo! My scent delights kind, old ladies and frightens lustful charmers. Exactly what I need.

A few years later... my life has found new paths, and I'm open to one adventure or another, not necessarily of a romantic nature, but that can't be ruled out either. I reach for Warm Cotton less and less often.

Recently, while ironing, I had an inspiration: I sprayed the piece to be smoothed with a few drops of Warm Cotton. And finally, the scent finds its way to its destiny. Ever since, my wardrobe has smelled clean and pure like warm cotton.

It is autumn. Blazing light ignites the leaves of the trees in a bonfire. My summer fragrances remind me of the Mediterranean and do not suit the cool air and the scent of foliage. The lovely lady in my corner perfumery is diligently working her way through a selection of scents: warm, powdery, autumnal it should be. With Goldea by Bulgari on my right and For Her L’absolu by Narciso Rodriguez on my left wrist, I move on.

I have been fascinated by For Her in its various forms for years and always want to shout: Oh moment, linger a while! You are so beautiful. But For Her is not for me and simply refuses to stay. L’absolu is at least a bit more clingy.

In the forum, I read about the Musc Collection and realize that this is the advanced version of L’absolu. I blindly order a 30 ml bottle.

Days later, the package arrives. Opened, applied: cough syrup. Great disappointment, this will be a case for the souk. Saturday morning, the bottle is still there and we try again together. Mhmmm!

This scent is a living being, a fairy that dances around me exuberantly. She is wrapped in beige silk, with a bit of gold glitter, the hem flashing deep red lace. Around her forehead, she has entwined flower vines. She loves to drive. There she pulls out her bouquet of flowers and waves it around joyfully. During the day, she sleeps nestled against my neck and only nudges me occasionally when she stretches languorously. In the evening, she is already waiting impatiently in my coat and calls out to me: Come quickly, out into the still warm evening air. Let’s walk a few meters along the river and stir up the leaves with our feet. On the opposite bank, the last rays of sunshine get caught in the glowing red treetops.

For Her Musc Collection: a character scent, dazzling like the sun in autumn, delicious like crème brûlée, enchanting like tropical flowers at dusk, a being with its own mind and moods just like me.