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05/29/2018
Valrahmeh
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Valrahmeh
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I want my Pérubore back
When I was sick as a child, we always went to Dr. Landau. He had a small practice at the Blvd de Courcelles, and from his waiting room you could see the Parc Monceau. I always found this particularly interesting, especially because of the children playing. But we never waited long, because Dr. Landau was already almost 70 years old and only received friends and acquaintances, so that you could always get right to it. Dr. Landau came from Dresden, fled from the Nazis in 1938 and later finished his medical studies in Paris.
His French sounded strange, his German too, my father told us it was Saxon. While a French doctor has no problem writing his patients a whole bar of antibiotics and paracetamol booms on the prescription, Landau always relied on the "self-healing powers". My mother still can't pronounce the word.
Although my permanent disease was to house a streptococcus colony in my sinuses from October to April, Dr. Landau was unable to hunt these annoying beasts down with an antibiotic. He prescribed mud packs and inhalations. Including a product called Pérubore.
One dissolved a bubble tablet Pérubore in hot water, got a towel over the head and had to inhale the vapours. Pérubore smelled for me as a child gentle and powdery after a vanilla, exotic tree from a distant magic forest of the Incas.
I couldn't get enough of it and inhaled it at least twice a day. It had, as it was written on the package, a high percentage of Peru balsam. Not that I knew anything about it, but the exotic word Peru balsam, the creamy vanilla balsam scent and my leisure hours under a dark towel condensed into a pleasantly tired and soft childhood memory.
I later bought Pérubore and was horrified: the soft bubbling tablets were replaced by soft capsules containing a piercing lavender eucalyptus oil, horrible.
My beloved Pérubore seemed lost forever.
Until recently, at the Bouteille perfumery in Cannes, an advertising lady from Atelier des Ors gave me a splash of Lune féline. I thought I'd be catapulted at the speed of light to Dr. Landau and my inhalations.
But what I smelled was even finer, more intense and even really elegant. My already gentle, sweet children's Peru balsam was ennobled with excellent vanilla, rounded off with wood and some cinnamon.
I have grown up long ago - and my Pérubore has grown with me and is now called Lune féline.
It is still a gentle, tired, soft fragrance, but at the same time it has something very precious and elegant about it, which is probably due to the wood. Something dark, quiet, emanates from him, only I am no longer sitting under the towel, but under the starry tent, it is warm and there is no breeze. It could be in the quiet villa of a French plantation owner in Indochina, I swing quietly in a hammock, from the upper floor a light smell of opium blows over, which connects with the smell of Styrax from the small Buddha altar on the ground floor.
It may be that a cat looks out from behind the bushes on the banks of the Mekong, in whose eyes the moonlight is reflected.
His French sounded strange, his German too, my father told us it was Saxon. While a French doctor has no problem writing his patients a whole bar of antibiotics and paracetamol booms on the prescription, Landau always relied on the "self-healing powers". My mother still can't pronounce the word.
Although my permanent disease was to house a streptococcus colony in my sinuses from October to April, Dr. Landau was unable to hunt these annoying beasts down with an antibiotic. He prescribed mud packs and inhalations. Including a product called Pérubore.
One dissolved a bubble tablet Pérubore in hot water, got a towel over the head and had to inhale the vapours. Pérubore smelled for me as a child gentle and powdery after a vanilla, exotic tree from a distant magic forest of the Incas.
I couldn't get enough of it and inhaled it at least twice a day. It had, as it was written on the package, a high percentage of Peru balsam. Not that I knew anything about it, but the exotic word Peru balsam, the creamy vanilla balsam scent and my leisure hours under a dark towel condensed into a pleasantly tired and soft childhood memory.
I later bought Pérubore and was horrified: the soft bubbling tablets were replaced by soft capsules containing a piercing lavender eucalyptus oil, horrible.
My beloved Pérubore seemed lost forever.
Until recently, at the Bouteille perfumery in Cannes, an advertising lady from Atelier des Ors gave me a splash of Lune féline. I thought I'd be catapulted at the speed of light to Dr. Landau and my inhalations.
But what I smelled was even finer, more intense and even really elegant. My already gentle, sweet children's Peru balsam was ennobled with excellent vanilla, rounded off with wood and some cinnamon.
I have grown up long ago - and my Pérubore has grown with me and is now called Lune féline.
It is still a gentle, tired, soft fragrance, but at the same time it has something very precious and elegant about it, which is probably due to the wood. Something dark, quiet, emanates from him, only I am no longer sitting under the towel, but under the starry tent, it is warm and there is no breeze. It could be in the quiet villa of a French plantation owner in Indochina, I swing quietly in a hammock, from the upper floor a light smell of opium blows over, which connects with the smell of Styrax from the small Buddha altar on the ground floor.
It may be that a cat looks out from behind the bushes on the banks of the Mekong, in whose eyes the moonlight is reflected.
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