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An attempt at homage..
Jicky and I are sitting together on a fallen tree on a small beach in the Flensburg outer fjord and let the first tentative rays of the March sun shine on the winter- and rain-weary fur. Today I have almost nothing on my agenda and so I take the time to finally realize the plan that I have been carrying around with me for weeks: I would like to try to write a comment that does justice to this outstanding fragrance.
After I had the chance to test some Guerlains and as a result of that I got closer to this traditional brand, I always got stuck with Jicky. That name. Somehow playful, almost cheeky. Who is this Jicky and how he/she might smell. A bottling was quickly ordered and so I dared to try this fragrance, about which so much has already been said, without any expectations. I simply wanted to know what he/she smells like, this fragrance that already caused a sensation at the end of the 19th century and still inspires people today. My test was accompanied by a small pinch of fear that a great tangy surge of musty flowery sweetness might strike me. But no, nothing like that happened. Jicky is Goethe's Mignon, that androgynous, ethereal being who asks me if I know it, the land where the lemons bloom. Jicky is not female, not male, Jicky is Jicky. Citric in tone, which immediately undergoes a slightly oriental twist and is carried by dark woody intensity. A touch of sweetness balances the virgin notes and makes them not only bearable but also enjoyable. Jicky always stays fresh and never drifts into the stuffness I hate and fear. Incense joins in and gives the fragrance a mysterious and darkly sparkling depth. The individual notes interweave ever deeper and finer, transforming the freshness into a warmth that gently ensnares me, which seems to have fallen out of time, neither young nor old, but absolutely out of time.
And now I know I've known Jicky for a long time. Jicky smells like Aunt Trutchen. Aunt Trutchen, the good soul of my childhood. Aunt turkey wasn't my auntie. She was my neighbour. Born in 1912. And no other name could have been worse for this grande dame than Turkey. Trutchen was the wife of a Hamburg forwarding agent and had travelled far. At the end of the seventies they bought our neighbouring house on the edge of the forest and from then on spent their retirement weekends in a rural idyll. Trutchen was about 1.55m tall, very slim until old age and never wore trousers. She always welcomed me (between my 5th and 10th year we spent almost every afternoon together) in a knee-length pencil skirt, wore a noble blouse and dainty pumps (at the age of 9 I was proud as Bolle, because now I could try high heels for the first time - I had grown into her shoe size 35). She wore her chestnut brown hair chin-length, curled with side parting from ear height and placed it so accurately in a water wave as I only knew it from black and white movie beauties. Of course Trutchen was made up, when she sat on her expensive upholstered chair with her legs crossed and waited for me. That's what real ladies do. And she would never have worn pantyhose. For heaven's sake. Trutchen wore silk stockings and suspenders. Of course she did. When Trutchen and her husband were living in their Hamburg-Altona apartment, I got bored. I, precocious only child, simply lacked the sophisticated element in my boring school life (even if I couldn't call it that at the time). Even my kind grandmother could not change that, no matter how hard she tried. Grandma did not serve me Earl Grey made of Chinese porcelain cups at 4 pm. Grandma wore pants. Granny also did not tell me about Odessa in the early 50s and wild parties in Rijeka. What a sound. Pure exoticism. How I would love to talk to Trutchen about more adult topics today. I'm sure I would have blushed in shame every now and then. Trutchen's husband was what is commonly known as a real philanderer. I noticed that already as a child. When he took me to the tennis court, he was always surrounded by a handsome swarm of much younger ladies in no time at all and played the cock with devotion. Trutchen didn't care about that, she will never have been short of admirers.
When I was in my early 20s, my mother called me and told me that Trutchen had died at 94. She was sitting peacefully in her upholstered armchair, with a pencil skirt and her legs crossed
The more often I wear Jicky, the more certain I am that this very scent was her signature scent. I know him, he's more familiar to me than anyone. Jicky is turkey. And today, at 37, Jicky is me too
After I had the chance to test some Guerlains and as a result of that I got closer to this traditional brand, I always got stuck with Jicky. That name. Somehow playful, almost cheeky. Who is this Jicky and how he/she might smell. A bottling was quickly ordered and so I dared to try this fragrance, about which so much has already been said, without any expectations. I simply wanted to know what he/she smells like, this fragrance that already caused a sensation at the end of the 19th century and still inspires people today. My test was accompanied by a small pinch of fear that a great tangy surge of musty flowery sweetness might strike me. But no, nothing like that happened. Jicky is Goethe's Mignon, that androgynous, ethereal being who asks me if I know it, the land where the lemons bloom. Jicky is not female, not male, Jicky is Jicky. Citric in tone, which immediately undergoes a slightly oriental twist and is carried by dark woody intensity. A touch of sweetness balances the virgin notes and makes them not only bearable but also enjoyable. Jicky always stays fresh and never drifts into the stuffness I hate and fear. Incense joins in and gives the fragrance a mysterious and darkly sparkling depth. The individual notes interweave ever deeper and finer, transforming the freshness into a warmth that gently ensnares me, which seems to have fallen out of time, neither young nor old, but absolutely out of time.
And now I know I've known Jicky for a long time. Jicky smells like Aunt Trutchen. Aunt Trutchen, the good soul of my childhood. Aunt turkey wasn't my auntie. She was my neighbour. Born in 1912. And no other name could have been worse for this grande dame than Turkey. Trutchen was the wife of a Hamburg forwarding agent and had travelled far. At the end of the seventies they bought our neighbouring house on the edge of the forest and from then on spent their retirement weekends in a rural idyll. Trutchen was about 1.55m tall, very slim until old age and never wore trousers. She always welcomed me (between my 5th and 10th year we spent almost every afternoon together) in a knee-length pencil skirt, wore a noble blouse and dainty pumps (at the age of 9 I was proud as Bolle, because now I could try high heels for the first time - I had grown into her shoe size 35). She wore her chestnut brown hair chin-length, curled with side parting from ear height and placed it so accurately in a water wave as I only knew it from black and white movie beauties. Of course Trutchen was made up, when she sat on her expensive upholstered chair with her legs crossed and waited for me. That's what real ladies do. And she would never have worn pantyhose. For heaven's sake. Trutchen wore silk stockings and suspenders. Of course she did. When Trutchen and her husband were living in their Hamburg-Altona apartment, I got bored. I, precocious only child, simply lacked the sophisticated element in my boring school life (even if I couldn't call it that at the time). Even my kind grandmother could not change that, no matter how hard she tried. Grandma did not serve me Earl Grey made of Chinese porcelain cups at 4 pm. Grandma wore pants. Granny also did not tell me about Odessa in the early 50s and wild parties in Rijeka. What a sound. Pure exoticism. How I would love to talk to Trutchen about more adult topics today. I'm sure I would have blushed in shame every now and then. Trutchen's husband was what is commonly known as a real philanderer. I noticed that already as a child. When he took me to the tennis court, he was always surrounded by a handsome swarm of much younger ladies in no time at all and played the cock with devotion. Trutchen didn't care about that, she will never have been short of admirers.
When I was in my early 20s, my mother called me and told me that Trutchen had died at 94. She was sitting peacefully in her upholstered armchair, with a pencil skirt and her legs crossed
The more often I wear Jicky, the more certain I am that this very scent was her signature scent. I know him, he's more familiar to me than anyone. Jicky is turkey. And today, at 37, Jicky is me too
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Once Matron has sat out...
I had my first encounter with terracotta at the beginning of December in a Husum perfumery. It was the bottle that captivated me with its Mediterranean feel and slightly antique reminiscences. But maybe it was just the longing for a little sunshine in the wet and cold winter in northern Germany that made me ask the saleswoman to have me spray terracotta on a test strip. Who knows? When I held the paper under my nose, the decision was quickly made in favour of the scent. Much too heavy and only then this concentrated floweriness. No. Check. Thanks
Two weeks later, in a Kiel branch of the Türkisen (the weather conditions were similarly desolate), I again encounter the sunny bottle. This time he stands in gripping height and allows me a second test without the expectant look of a saleswoman. Why I had to challenge a scent I didn't like at all in the first test a second time can probably not be explained rationally. It's a Guerlain, so he can't be all that terrible. And then there's this bottle again. This sun, this golden glowing content. And after all, some other fragrances had already taught me that sometimes it is time and not the first intuition that can turn aversion into favor. And paper is not skin, so I had to introduce the scent to my wrist. The first five minutes were truly no joy. Flowers. An impenetrable thicket of flowers. Sweet, crunchy flashy, intense. A massive matron, an opera diva in a floor-length satin dress, appears before my inner eye. One can hardly imagine how much strength and how many helping hands were needed to close the long zipper on her back. In her opulent décolleté there is an all the more opulent bouquet of white flowers. Jasmine, neroli, tiaré. And she comes closer and closer, wants to take me in her arms, crush me. No, this is really too much for me. I switch off the head cinema and instead devote myself to Guerlain's Insolence, which I spray on the remaining wrist.
During the drive back to the flat land, I am met again and again by a warm and inviting scent, which is carried by a pinch of coconut and a touch of vanilla. I feel comfortable and secure. My wrist wanders towards my nose and I notice with benevolence that the matron and her flower tourage have left. But it does not leave a battlefield, but a piazza. Somewhere in southern Tuscany, on a beautiful evening in August. Not Siena, this place would be too big and too open. But maybe Montepulciano. It's busy, but not full anymore. The old stones reflect the warmth of the roaring hot summer day and you treat yourself to a small aperitif. The flowers on my skin have interwoven with the other components of the fragrance to form a wonderful unity from which not a single ingredient stands out dominantly or even unpleasantly. What initially seemed to me to be violently sweet and exuberantly flowery has now turned into a creamy soft and incredibly flattering veil.
If I had to capture this fragrance in just two words, it would be warm and solar. I have never been able to experience another fragrance that could have so aptly captured the concept of a warming ray of sunlight olfactorically as terracotta. That is why this fragrance is not a summer scent for me. If I sat on this very piazza in Montepulciano, scented with terracotta, I would probably die of heat exhaustion. But on this sunny January day in the middle of the northern German nowhere, terracotta is my summery straw that makes me dream of the August evening in Montepulciano. By the way, this also works very well in drizzle and stormy wind. As soon as I wear terracotta, this scent seems to manipulate something at my synapses, suppressing my sensation of cold. Terracotta is therefore for me the scent of the tired of winter, longing for the light of summer.
As far as durability and silage are concerned, you have to admit that terracotta simply performs well. In contrast to me, he survives an eight-hour working day without signs of fatigue and is still clearly visible on my scarf even after three days. As far as Sillage is concerned, less here means more. With three sprays you are clearly noticed, if you overdose it, you run the risk that the matron and her bosom bouquet will be back at the door very quickly.
Two weeks later, in a Kiel branch of the Türkisen (the weather conditions were similarly desolate), I again encounter the sunny bottle. This time he stands in gripping height and allows me a second test without the expectant look of a saleswoman. Why I had to challenge a scent I didn't like at all in the first test a second time can probably not be explained rationally. It's a Guerlain, so he can't be all that terrible. And then there's this bottle again. This sun, this golden glowing content. And after all, some other fragrances had already taught me that sometimes it is time and not the first intuition that can turn aversion into favor. And paper is not skin, so I had to introduce the scent to my wrist. The first five minutes were truly no joy. Flowers. An impenetrable thicket of flowers. Sweet, crunchy flashy, intense. A massive matron, an opera diva in a floor-length satin dress, appears before my inner eye. One can hardly imagine how much strength and how many helping hands were needed to close the long zipper on her back. In her opulent décolleté there is an all the more opulent bouquet of white flowers. Jasmine, neroli, tiaré. And she comes closer and closer, wants to take me in her arms, crush me. No, this is really too much for me. I switch off the head cinema and instead devote myself to Guerlain's Insolence, which I spray on the remaining wrist.
During the drive back to the flat land, I am met again and again by a warm and inviting scent, which is carried by a pinch of coconut and a touch of vanilla. I feel comfortable and secure. My wrist wanders towards my nose and I notice with benevolence that the matron and her flower tourage have left. But it does not leave a battlefield, but a piazza. Somewhere in southern Tuscany, on a beautiful evening in August. Not Siena, this place would be too big and too open. But maybe Montepulciano. It's busy, but not full anymore. The old stones reflect the warmth of the roaring hot summer day and you treat yourself to a small aperitif. The flowers on my skin have interwoven with the other components of the fragrance to form a wonderful unity from which not a single ingredient stands out dominantly or even unpleasantly. What initially seemed to me to be violently sweet and exuberantly flowery has now turned into a creamy soft and incredibly flattering veil.
If I had to capture this fragrance in just two words, it would be warm and solar. I have never been able to experience another fragrance that could have so aptly captured the concept of a warming ray of sunlight olfactorically as terracotta. That is why this fragrance is not a summer scent for me. If I sat on this very piazza in Montepulciano, scented with terracotta, I would probably die of heat exhaustion. But on this sunny January day in the middle of the northern German nowhere, terracotta is my summery straw that makes me dream of the August evening in Montepulciano. By the way, this also works very well in drizzle and stormy wind. As soon as I wear terracotta, this scent seems to manipulate something at my synapses, suppressing my sensation of cold. Terracotta is therefore for me the scent of the tired of winter, longing for the light of summer.
As far as durability and silage are concerned, you have to admit that terracotta simply performs well. In contrast to me, he survives an eight-hour working day without signs of fatigue and is still clearly visible on my scarf even after three days. As far as Sillage is concerned, less here means more. With three sprays you are clearly noticed, if you overdose it, you run the risk that the matron and her bosom bouquet will be back at the door very quickly.
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Je l'adore? No! Mais ça me plaît un peu
The day before yesterday the cashier threw a sample of "J'adore" into my bag at the turquoise. I was happy about the test possibility and sprayed myself already on the parking lot courageously a weakling of the big name on my forearm. The big name aroused great hopes, although I always associated Dior with something very elegant and feminine, even a certain noblesse and was therefore already prepared that the fragrance could not really suit me.
Well, what follows now can certainly be called a self-fulfilling prophecy. It smells of a restrained citric cloud of floral delicacy. If I had to interpret "J'adore" musically, I would take the flute. Light tones dominate the fragrance, if it had a colour it would be light yellow with a pastel note. I smell ylang-ylang and a lot of jasmine, but the wooden base doesn't want to show itself to me. And so it blooms silently and quietly. I miss any depth. "J'adore" has as many corners and edges as a gym ball. I feel strange in my skin with this scent. That's how ladies smell when everything is perfect. From the hairstyle to the nails to the costume, to which no lint sticks. Fresh laundry comes to mind, clean as a whistle. As I ponder, I remove some white cat hair from my black woolen sweater.
Is the scent erotic? Not at all. It is the scent of an ethereal being who wants to smell fresh, clean and smart beyond any sexuality. There is nothing at all corrupt about it that wanted to point to undreamt-of depths behind the accurate façade of its wearer. I can well imagine the fragrance on very feminine women up to the age of 40 who have to do their job in a trouser suit or costume and at the same time want to look friendly and serious. "J'adore" is not obtrusive or even penetrating, but always remains fine and polite. This understatement can also be seen in the fragrance, which is linear like a string of pearls (which, by the way, wouldn't harmonize badly with "J'adore"). Sillage is perceptible at arm's length with an appropriate dosage, but here too the fragrance does not deviate from its restrained credo. After about four hours, the fragrance rapidly degrades in terms of shelf life and is only perceptible very close to the body.
"J'adore" is a fragrance that is likely to cause vehement rejection among the fewest noses. It is pleasing, a friendly, clear fragrance for lovers of floral chords, for whom the word extravagance has something immanently threatening about it.
All the more the naming irritates me. With the French "J'adore" I associate affect-controlled devotion, sensual desire and a tiny bit of animal instinct. I would have called the fragrance "Mais oui, ça me plaît un peu". But that's probably why I'm not in Dior's marketing department
Well, what follows now can certainly be called a self-fulfilling prophecy. It smells of a restrained citric cloud of floral delicacy. If I had to interpret "J'adore" musically, I would take the flute. Light tones dominate the fragrance, if it had a colour it would be light yellow with a pastel note. I smell ylang-ylang and a lot of jasmine, but the wooden base doesn't want to show itself to me. And so it blooms silently and quietly. I miss any depth. "J'adore" has as many corners and edges as a gym ball. I feel strange in my skin with this scent. That's how ladies smell when everything is perfect. From the hairstyle to the nails to the costume, to which no lint sticks. Fresh laundry comes to mind, clean as a whistle. As I ponder, I remove some white cat hair from my black woolen sweater.
Is the scent erotic? Not at all. It is the scent of an ethereal being who wants to smell fresh, clean and smart beyond any sexuality. There is nothing at all corrupt about it that wanted to point to undreamt-of depths behind the accurate façade of its wearer. I can well imagine the fragrance on very feminine women up to the age of 40 who have to do their job in a trouser suit or costume and at the same time want to look friendly and serious. "J'adore" is not obtrusive or even penetrating, but always remains fine and polite. This understatement can also be seen in the fragrance, which is linear like a string of pearls (which, by the way, wouldn't harmonize badly with "J'adore"). Sillage is perceptible at arm's length with an appropriate dosage, but here too the fragrance does not deviate from its restrained credo. After about four hours, the fragrance rapidly degrades in terms of shelf life and is only perceptible very close to the body.
"J'adore" is a fragrance that is likely to cause vehement rejection among the fewest noses. It is pleasing, a friendly, clear fragrance for lovers of floral chords, for whom the word extravagance has something immanently threatening about it.
All the more the naming irritates me. With the French "J'adore" I associate affect-controlled devotion, sensual desire and a tiny bit of animal instinct. I would have called the fragrance "Mais oui, ça me plaît un peu". But that's probably why I'm not in Dior's marketing department
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Of disturbance and irrational desire ..
On 3 October I boarded a truck ferry to the Baltic States to relax for a few days on the Curonian Spit. In order to reach the passenger deck of the enormous ship, the foot passengers were guided through a narrow corridor immediately after boarding the ship, which merged seamlessly into a seemingly endless escalator. One drove and drove, slight anxiety set in. A few bars of "Stairway to heaven" came to mind. Suddenly there's a billboard hanging. Alone in the hall. Beautiful people in soft light. Boheme, ick listen to yourself trampsen! A sign, Fatum, divine providence! A new Gucci fragrance - and the escalator takes me straight to the kingdom of heaven of the on-board shop. (One must know that my collection at the beginning of October still consisted of Gucci Rush and Gucci Rush - my fragrance since 1998.) So I checked in quickly, drank a cosy beer for my husband's sake and disappeared into the (12 square metre) on-board shop. Nice bottle. Fits these beautiful people who seem to have Bacchanalia in their heads in the soft backlight. My inner self is already indulging in seductively soft scent spheres. I'm spraying on the paper. Full of anticipation, I inhale the fragrance. Peuhaoioioioi! I'm outraged. I'm almost over the top. What on earth is that, what is that, and who the hell wants to smell like that? Alcohol on foot tincture with straw and moss under rotten birch. I expected a perfume that would smell the way my ottonormal nose knows and can classify perfume. That is definitely not Memoire d'une odeur. I was somehow upset and disappointed and stomped back to my husband, who secretly rejoiced to have saved a lot of money.
A month later I'm at the turquoise and can choose a birthday scent. The salesgirl's wonderful. Scan me, know me. The first fragrance presented is mine and is bought. I am a little disappointed, though, because I would have liked to have tried more. "Oh, that reminds me of an experience with the new Gucci. I'd love to test it again." The wonderful one reaches purposefully for "Ambrosia di fiori" and holds the little paper under my nose. "No, this one's not mine either, but I mean the green ones, the crass ones." "The green one, seriously the green one?" The turquoise is noticeably shaken. "Yes, I want to give him another chance. Maybe he'll develop and become beautiful." "Nah, nothing's going to be nice!" Did I mention that I liked this salesgirl incredibly much? There's nothing like disarming honesty. So we both don't find the scent so dolle.
Third attempt, end of November. There it is again. The green anti-flower water laughs at me, I reach out and get daring. I'm spraying the scent on my wrist. He is no longer as evil as he was when we first met him on the stormy Baltic Sea. After the alcohol veil has dissipated, it gets a sober note. It's clear. He's got nothing playful. He doesn't want to be erotic either, not feminine, not wicked. I like the chamomile that calms me down. It has something strict, it sets the direction, but remains clear and sublime. The woods are added, giving the chamomile fullness. I perceive musk only minimally. At the very end I can perceive the vanilla, very delicate, now only in connection with the camomile, which is also only a fine veil.
Beginning of December: What's with the stinginess? I bought the bottle. What has moved me so long and so repeatedly should belong to me. I also have an explanation: Since our first encounter I have smelled myself through the entire standard turquoise assortment and understood that I find flowers terrible. Especially lily of the valley. Fruits are a little better. I have also realized that my fragrances must at least be unisex. I find many men's fragrances more wearable on me than, for example, a SI or LVEB. That a pure women's fragrance can trigger a buying impulse in me is extremely rare. Meanwhile I am happy when a fragrance smells different, when it can stand out from the fruit-flowery complacent monotony.
And Memoire d'une odeur can do that only too well. He's not a girl's scent. At least not for those who want to be sweet and sexy, run to the nail studio and tinker with fake lashes.
It reminds me of my horses with its light hay note and for this reason alone triggers a feeling of well-being in me. I spray it on my pillow before falling asleep and sleep deeply and firmly. It's so light and clear, I'd even wear it in the stable. I'd never get the idea of another fragrance. And I think my horses would like him too.
Tomorrow I'll wear it to school and I'll be curious to see what it does. It is and remains a polarizing scent, but it is worth giving it 7-364 chances. All fragrance conventions on "reset" and "memoire" have the potential to create a new fragrance memory.
A month later I'm at the turquoise and can choose a birthday scent. The salesgirl's wonderful. Scan me, know me. The first fragrance presented is mine and is bought. I am a little disappointed, though, because I would have liked to have tried more. "Oh, that reminds me of an experience with the new Gucci. I'd love to test it again." The wonderful one reaches purposefully for "Ambrosia di fiori" and holds the little paper under my nose. "No, this one's not mine either, but I mean the green ones, the crass ones." "The green one, seriously the green one?" The turquoise is noticeably shaken. "Yes, I want to give him another chance. Maybe he'll develop and become beautiful." "Nah, nothing's going to be nice!" Did I mention that I liked this salesgirl incredibly much? There's nothing like disarming honesty. So we both don't find the scent so dolle.
Third attempt, end of November. There it is again. The green anti-flower water laughs at me, I reach out and get daring. I'm spraying the scent on my wrist. He is no longer as evil as he was when we first met him on the stormy Baltic Sea. After the alcohol veil has dissipated, it gets a sober note. It's clear. He's got nothing playful. He doesn't want to be erotic either, not feminine, not wicked. I like the chamomile that calms me down. It has something strict, it sets the direction, but remains clear and sublime. The woods are added, giving the chamomile fullness. I perceive musk only minimally. At the very end I can perceive the vanilla, very delicate, now only in connection with the camomile, which is also only a fine veil.
Beginning of December: What's with the stinginess? I bought the bottle. What has moved me so long and so repeatedly should belong to me. I also have an explanation: Since our first encounter I have smelled myself through the entire standard turquoise assortment and understood that I find flowers terrible. Especially lily of the valley. Fruits are a little better. I have also realized that my fragrances must at least be unisex. I find many men's fragrances more wearable on me than, for example, a SI or LVEB. That a pure women's fragrance can trigger a buying impulse in me is extremely rare. Meanwhile I am happy when a fragrance smells different, when it can stand out from the fruit-flowery complacent monotony.
And Memoire d'une odeur can do that only too well. He's not a girl's scent. At least not for those who want to be sweet and sexy, run to the nail studio and tinker with fake lashes.
It reminds me of my horses with its light hay note and for this reason alone triggers a feeling of well-being in me. I spray it on my pillow before falling asleep and sleep deeply and firmly. It's so light and clear, I'd even wear it in the stable. I'd never get the idea of another fragrance. And I think my horses would like him too.
Tomorrow I'll wear it to school and I'll be curious to see what it does. It is and remains a polarizing scent, but it is worth giving it 7-364 chances. All fragrance conventions on "reset" and "memoire" have the potential to create a new fragrance memory.
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Rabimmel, Rabammel - Rabanne!
I am quite freshly addicted to perfume and so it is obvious that I first have to sniff my way through the mainstream sea of fragrance bit by bit in order to gradually build up a modest wealth of experience that lets me understand the fragrance comments at Parfumo and allows me to contribute my small share to the discourse within the scope of my limited possibilities
The first Paco Rabanne in my nose was Lady Million, who didn't make it from paper to my skin. Too dressed up, "sequin minis at the club." Olympea read quite interesting concerning the scent pyramid and my olfactory booty scheme. Sprayed on the paper, inhaled and found quite nice. My spontaneous comment: "At least it won't hurt anyone." The woman in turquoise had to grin a little. Three weeks later, on my way home after work, I stopped at our cow-village drugstore with a centaur and had an acute need for rewards. The gentleman in white, who unlocked the perfume counter for me, seemed a bit insecure at first, but immediately went to work and patiently sprayed one fragrance after the other on the card. After I must have looked very frightened to disgusted after testing Angel, he reached under the counter and held a small tin of coffee beans under my nose. Chapeau! It wanted to convince me so quite no smell and so I landed again with Mr. Rabanne Greek echoes. In the face of Angel, the scent experience could only be better. Wait a minute, wait a minute. Olympea Intense. This is a little different from Olmpea, isn't it? It's for the tester and the nose. Hiya. This friendly arbitrariness, which had kept me at Olympea from further occupation with this fragrance, was completely alien to Olymppea Intense. The fragrance is voluminous, harmonious, sweet and very warm and soft. I clearly smell the white pepper in the top note, which gives Olympea Intense a certain angular spiciness. Then comes the salty element of vanilla, which blends with the other components to form a wonderfully mild salty caramel candy, making the fragrance for me a dream gourmand par excellence. Intense yet delicate. Sweet, but by no means sticky. I perceive the flowery notes less strongly (to hardly). Ambergris and sandalwood are finely tuned and ensure a harmonious finish, which will continue to be worn by this heavenly delicious caramel candy. It is of course not an oller Werthers, but a hand-rolled sweet from a small Breton sweet manufacturer.
The Sillage is already not from bad parents, so restraint is in demand with the dosage. My shelf life is about six hours.
And so it happened that Paco and I made our peace after all
The first Paco Rabanne in my nose was Lady Million, who didn't make it from paper to my skin. Too dressed up, "sequin minis at the club." Olympea read quite interesting concerning the scent pyramid and my olfactory booty scheme. Sprayed on the paper, inhaled and found quite nice. My spontaneous comment: "At least it won't hurt anyone." The woman in turquoise had to grin a little. Three weeks later, on my way home after work, I stopped at our cow-village drugstore with a centaur and had an acute need for rewards. The gentleman in white, who unlocked the perfume counter for me, seemed a bit insecure at first, but immediately went to work and patiently sprayed one fragrance after the other on the card. After I must have looked very frightened to disgusted after testing Angel, he reached under the counter and held a small tin of coffee beans under my nose. Chapeau! It wanted to convince me so quite no smell and so I landed again with Mr. Rabanne Greek echoes. In the face of Angel, the scent experience could only be better. Wait a minute, wait a minute. Olympea Intense. This is a little different from Olmpea, isn't it? It's for the tester and the nose. Hiya. This friendly arbitrariness, which had kept me at Olympea from further occupation with this fragrance, was completely alien to Olymppea Intense. The fragrance is voluminous, harmonious, sweet and very warm and soft. I clearly smell the white pepper in the top note, which gives Olympea Intense a certain angular spiciness. Then comes the salty element of vanilla, which blends with the other components to form a wonderfully mild salty caramel candy, making the fragrance for me a dream gourmand par excellence. Intense yet delicate. Sweet, but by no means sticky. I perceive the flowery notes less strongly (to hardly). Ambergris and sandalwood are finely tuned and ensure a harmonious finish, which will continue to be worn by this heavenly delicious caramel candy. It is of course not an oller Werthers, but a hand-rolled sweet from a small Breton sweet manufacturer.
The Sillage is already not from bad parents, so restraint is in demand with the dosage. My shelf life is about six hours.
And so it happened that Paco and I made our peace after all
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