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Palonera
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Palonera
a little closer
He doesn't have too many friends, it seems, little Loewe.
It is criticized as being too tame, too suitable for the masses and too smoothly ironed, a little weak on the chest, especially since it is certainly not independent, headstrong like the head that advertises for it.
Disappointment sounds from this judgment, disillusionment and the one or other lost illusion.
And none of this is wrong - actually.
And also not really - actually.
Because he can do a little bit more than what you think he can do, he already does on my woman's skin.
In the almost two weeks in which he was "the one and only", in which he shared table and bed, day and night, train and car with me, little Loewe, I got to know him in his many facets, which showed themselves one after the other - some still on the same day, some only the next, the one after or later.
They all led me to Spain - the Spain I met on my travels to Andalusia and the Costa Blanca.
My first encounter with the little lion took place on a warm day - the sun warmed my naked skin, drew the summer before the end of March.
Blue sky, no clouds, the garden full of yellow and green.
"Solo" opened with soft white, light green, lots of neroli and soft bergamot - a cologne like so many others you love hot and dear in Spain, which are in half-litre bottles in almost every shop at a price you can't believe what your nose tells you later.
Nothing stings, nothing scratches - no Domestos, no cleaner for the toilet.
Light, fresh, fine - at 40 degrees in the shade perhaps the only thing that helps.
So he, little Loewe, stayed the whole long day - whatever the pyramid said: Nothing was true.
Not on this first day.
In the following days, which were cooler, rainer, rougher, the salted sea air of the White Coast blew around me, I climbed from orange and lemon gardens into the ethereal coolness of the conifers and rocks high up on the Montgó, in the Sierra Nevada, sitting in some bar in a side street of Granada back to back with a stranger wearing pareras "Varon Dandy", smelled the scent of the woods and spices, the clean skin and the sherry in front of him on the table.
I stood in the cool walls of the Alhambra, in the nose the remains of sacred smoke, mixed with the water of the outdoor pools.
He's not a loud scent, Loewes "Solo", never, in any of his aberrant facets.
One perceives him, perceives me with him, turns one's head when one is close to me, wordless mostly, with a smile.
Once only, once, I was asked, "What do you smell like?"
From a boy, a small, nine years old, whom I knew since his birth, who had never asked in all this time.
"What do you smell like?"
"A perfume. Is it good?"
He nodded, smiled, a little embarrassed, almost: "It's good. I like the way you smell."
And for the rest of the time, he sat a little closer.
Little Loewe had a new boyfriend.
It is criticized as being too tame, too suitable for the masses and too smoothly ironed, a little weak on the chest, especially since it is certainly not independent, headstrong like the head that advertises for it.
Disappointment sounds from this judgment, disillusionment and the one or other lost illusion.
And none of this is wrong - actually.
And also not really - actually.
Because he can do a little bit more than what you think he can do, he already does on my woman's skin.
In the almost two weeks in which he was "the one and only", in which he shared table and bed, day and night, train and car with me, little Loewe, I got to know him in his many facets, which showed themselves one after the other - some still on the same day, some only the next, the one after or later.
They all led me to Spain - the Spain I met on my travels to Andalusia and the Costa Blanca.
My first encounter with the little lion took place on a warm day - the sun warmed my naked skin, drew the summer before the end of March.
Blue sky, no clouds, the garden full of yellow and green.
"Solo" opened with soft white, light green, lots of neroli and soft bergamot - a cologne like so many others you love hot and dear in Spain, which are in half-litre bottles in almost every shop at a price you can't believe what your nose tells you later.
Nothing stings, nothing scratches - no Domestos, no cleaner for the toilet.
Light, fresh, fine - at 40 degrees in the shade perhaps the only thing that helps.
So he, little Loewe, stayed the whole long day - whatever the pyramid said: Nothing was true.
Not on this first day.
In the following days, which were cooler, rainer, rougher, the salted sea air of the White Coast blew around me, I climbed from orange and lemon gardens into the ethereal coolness of the conifers and rocks high up on the Montgó, in the Sierra Nevada, sitting in some bar in a side street of Granada back to back with a stranger wearing pareras "Varon Dandy", smelled the scent of the woods and spices, the clean skin and the sherry in front of him on the table.
I stood in the cool walls of the Alhambra, in the nose the remains of sacred smoke, mixed with the water of the outdoor pools.
He's not a loud scent, Loewes "Solo", never, in any of his aberrant facets.
One perceives him, perceives me with him, turns one's head when one is close to me, wordless mostly, with a smile.
Once only, once, I was asked, "What do you smell like?"
From a boy, a small, nine years old, whom I knew since his birth, who had never asked in all this time.
"What do you smell like?"
"A perfume. Is it good?"
He nodded, smiled, a little embarrassed, almost: "It's good. I like the way you smell."
And for the rest of the time, he sat a little closer.
Little Loewe had a new boyfriend.
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