Aglianico

There's an ice cream parlor in the town where I grew up. Opposite her: a church. There's a little wood behind it. In summer the queue in front of the ice cream parlour is long because the ice is good. One of the varieties, at least at that time, had been baptized "angel blue" by the operators, perhaps because of the nearby church, perhaps because of the delicate blue tone, which was nevertheless too intense to pass for sky blue. It was a very sweet, very artificial, non-alcoholic blue curaçao syrup ice cream, a sin that was very popular with children and young people. First and foremost with me.

Pacific Rock Moss reminds me of this ice.

Not because this "weird Aquate" would be cute. He certainly isn't. But he is lovely, squeaky (unfortunately only a few hours), playful-juvenile, cheerful and carefree in a way that makes me forgive him that I don't really like this genus at all.

The watery turquoise/blue of the perfume goes beautifully with this fragrance (and probably contributed to my angel blue-ice association). Equally wonderful: that it is an "overseas fragrance" that, due to a lack of long traditions, does not have to take into account a portfolio that has been around for decades and the "pressure of tradition" that weighs on the backs of the established houses. A bit like an Australian Shiraz wine ran "out of competition" for a long time and was mildly smiled at by lovers of a southern French Syrah.

For me, it's a scent for summer. A fragrance that carries me through the years back to the outdoor pool. To the sunbathing lawn. If you let yourself fall on the towel exhausted after one hour in the water, roll around, close your eyes and let the sun see you red. When the previous effort leads to this wonderful vertigo that connects you very firmly to the earth and the world.

For me, Pacific Rock Moss is a fragrance that I (if it weren't so expensive) could well imagine for teenagers and young adults, unisex (and all those who want to remember those times). With his quite pronounced "artificiality" he has a youthful vibe (I have to constantly think of the sweets of the outdoor kiosk while writing). In the best sense of the word. This is a time, in which one - hopefully - does not know many things yet, and many things in one's actions are not yet considered, whereby sometimes a light-heartedness can come about, which will unfortunately not exist later in life (at least not this one).

Speaking of artificiality. Yes, with the lemon I go d'accord. But coastal moss, sage...? I don't know, I don't know, I don't know. It doesn't matter. Maybe that's marketing. Maybe it's supposed to help achieve a fragrance placebo effect (and with my associations above he's obviously done just that, Chapeau!). I smelled "Parco Palladiano XV: Salvia Blu" twice, which is supposed to have a pronounced salvia note, and they divide a bit away. But if this is "natural sage" - I can't say (at least all sage species, which I smelled in nature so far, smelled different).

But I think Pacific Rock Moss is more of a kidnapping scent anyway. A fragrance that wants to take you away into the summer, into the scorching sun, into the convertible, into Capri for my sake, or even to those faraway, empty beaches of the Australian east coast, somewhere between Brisbane and Sydney. One wears white linen shirts, salt crystals in one's hair, the sea bursts and there are no more thoughts, everything is here and now, crunching sand between one's toes.

Therapist: "Then please describe to me how it came about that your thoughts were again and again about this one fragrance ... what was its name?"

Addict: "Noir de Noir by Tom Ford!"

T: "Right, Noir de Noir ... so that your thoughts revolve around this one fragrance again and again. It's got some compulsive traits. You probably know that his name means "darkness of darkness"?!"

S: "I like to call him 'deepest darkness'. Or 'deepest blackness'."

T (between interpretation and gentle irony): "Sounds a little ... depressed?!"

S: "It's Mr. Ford's fault!"

T: "Hmm... So, how did it happen?"

Silence. (...)

S: "Hmm, yeah, so, um, I picked up his name somewhere on the internet and when I passed the Tom Ford counter in a big department store yesterday, yeah, that name just came back. Plopped up in me. Do you know them, this wafting gasy scented soup, which almost takes your breath away in such department stores? Then I always wonder how much sense it makes to test a fragrance there at all. But I thought to myself: If I ever get the chance ... So I wait well-behaved at the counter, in front of me two gentlemen in Barbour jackets. I'm listening to her dialogue with the strict-looking salesgirl. 'This Uth Wutt, is he jut?' '(Longer rehearsed praise song of the saleswoman including a 'He develops differently on every skin'.)' 'Then I'll take the ma' with me, finish me a 250ml thing.'' 'Do you want one, too? Goes today' on me?' 'I don't mean no, ne?'"

T: "Please come back to the topic, our session only lasts 50 minutes ..."

S: "Ah, sorry. Well, at some point it'll be my turn and I'll ask for some sprayers of the 'deepest darkness' and the Japanese plum..." (Ignores the therapist's confusion.) "The fine mist spreads like a promise, hits the test strip... I freeze... I already suspect it, smell it, take the piece of paper with the perfume, and..." (Grins and cries at the same time)

T: "Would you like a handkerchief?"

S: "No, it's okay."

T: "Please describe to me exactly what you have felt at this moment... smells. As detailed as possible. Put yourself back in that special moment."

S: "Well, I already said: department store, soup and so on ... The one with the deepest darkness and I only really started on the evening of that day."

T: "So the Noir de Noir lasted a really long time?"

S: "You bet! He'll retreat, but he won't be out of the world in no time. That's one who stays all day. Or even the night."

T: "And what happened last night?"

S: "I cooked myself rice with vegetables and then ..."

T: "No, with you and the Noir de Noir."

S: "Sorry, I'm so sorry that I'm always so erratic in our sessions. Sometimes I wonder how you put up with me."

T: "Everything's fine. So...?"

S (takes a deep breath): "I lead the scent strip to my nose and suddenly fall through time. Outside it dawns, the night approaches, the next day, I could feel it, it would rain, I am alone, alone with the spreading darkness. And there is from the first moment a soft rose, a deep rose, I have no words for there. I... I hate roses, actually, so their smell, I can't stand rose water either. But everything's different here. I don't just like this rose scent, it draws me under its spell, it presses me to itself, so that I hide everything else. There's something else, a slight astringency, bitterness, tender, but probably it gives the rose a corset, perhaps like a very unsquaky, very dark chocolate, with some spices, yes, a very, very light spiciness, a bit like a calorie-reduced truffle praline; and there is also an unsweet vanillainess that pushes the scent into the dark season or into the evening, but an evening that is not as hot as the evenings last summer ... Can you follow me? ... This is a long-lasting, almost a little heavier, but never a floral scent suffocated by intensity. But..." (Silence)

T: "Say it out... no blinkers. This is a protected room. No one else hears what we're talking about."

S: "... but all these technical descriptions - fragrances, durability, silage, cover - do not explain what fascinated me from the first quiet moment with the fragrance, so that my thoughts start to circle it, so that I don't want it to be bottled, but a bottle, so that I almost don't care about its price, because I want it all, all close and all to myself. And I don't care if anyone else smells me or not. I just want to wear it for myself. Because... not because I want to expand my collection. Not because I think it's the most mass-appealing crowdpleasing super long-lasting mindblowing pantydropping strength-of-the-roses complimentizer, or the perfume art's last spray, or the puzzle's missing piece ... No, it's a personal scent. I think I've heard that this happens to many other people as well, albeit each against a different biographical and olefactory background and for different reasons. It is a fragrance which connects with my own history, with my past, which is not only beautiful, noble and of high quality, but above all a fragrance FOR ME ..."

T: "Hmm, mhh."

S: "... I once had a girlfriend who might have been able to sit here, even if this is not the topic. She had a poster hanging from her room door, maybe from a band, or it was just a motif, I don't remember it exactly. On it was a young woman, more like a teenager, long blond hair, open, slender figure and small, pale skin, as if she had embalmed the moonlight, in a black, tightly laced corset, full lips painted late burgundy red, the background deep black, blacker than the night, a starless sky. Her facial expression somewhere between deep pain, longing and lust, brushed over with rigid silent fear. Of course, the poster wasn't hanging in my girlfriend's room by accident. And this is Noir de Noir for me: the memory of a feeling when looking at this picture in my friend's familiar room with its special scent, the feelings between us, our finite togetherness drifting through time. Noir de Noir, that heavy, suffering, erotic, subtle rose scent could have been her scent, even if she didn't have it; and because it could have been her scent and it all meant something to me, my thoughts now revolve around it and I want it, I want it not only as a latest catch, but as something meaningful, although I can only speak for myself. Noir de Noir, Mr. Therapist, stands for passionate decay, for pleasurable finiteness. I have no better words. Maybe what I mean is beyond language."

T: "Oh so, oh so ... Yes, thank you so much for being able to open up today. I'm just afraid our time is up. For today. But as you know, one night is always followed by another day. See you next time. And watch your account balance."

It started with us a lot different than the usual love stories. For both of us it was rather a kind of spontaneous one-spray booth.

I met you online on one of those free dating sites. In a scented, scented narrow corridor, somewhere in the vastness of the digital sphere, someone had wanted to share you. So I knew from the beginning that I wasn't your only one and wouldn't stay. I didn't mind.

Probably it was your proud glass Intrecciato body and your pale green blood, slightly shining in the light, that attracted my attention. Yeah, I just thought you were beautiful. And then there was your beautiful name with that beautiful last name. Quadrifoglio, (four-leaf) cloverleaf.

We had a little chat and I asked you what you were all about and what you liked. As soon as I had asked my questions, the fear arose in me that I might have been too brash and scared you off. You were a little mysterious, silent, but I learned a little something about you. That you are half Italian, from a park near Vicenza, but also that you have a tattoo under the sole of your foot. You twisted your ankle and showed it to me: "Made in Spain" was his lyrics. In an unobserved moment I perfumed and learned that your French dad (single?) is called Aurélien Guichard and has quite a few children, some of whom I had heard of before (Sole di Positano, Chinatown and Eros). Maybe not the very best family, but hey, it was all about you!

And even "Vogue" has already published an article about your family, more precisely your brothers and sisters and your dad. And you are also mentioned: "(E)in green-powdery stimulant (...). Addictive factor!" That's an announcement!

I was fascinated. My expectation: To spend a few hours of green-creamy dolce far niente and maybe, if it fits, a friendship plus spray. They then usually evaporate after a few days, weeks or months again.

So I finally agreed to take you home with me on the first evening. Well, what can I say? It was a fantastic evening.

I welcomed you at the front door and you greeted me with a firm and gentle embrace. You smelled fresh and clean, as if you had washed your hair and head with a bergamot shampoo. But there was something else. Mmh, green spiciness, slightly bitter, bitter, but not unpleasant, as if you chewed some leaves of basil before our date, because you read somewhere that bad breath prevents. I thought that was good and I asked you into the heart of my apartment.

In the living room on the comfortable couch you fell quickly on my neck and I wanted to carry you immediately on hands and arms. Today I don't know whether it was a Saturday or Sunday, but somehow I associate these long, pleasant hours with a Catholic mass: The thing with us had something immediately worn, without me wanting to adulate our first meeting afterwards.

It was just what it was. I immediately fell in love with your elegance and restraint, but also with your stamina, which is best noticed by paying attention to you, as is the case with many other things in life.

"Give me more basil," I said, and you gave.

Happily we were in each other's arms. You smiled softly. We chatted about trifles and I found out that unfortunately money is not unimportant to you (which I forgive you in my burgeoning infatuation).

And then this question finally came up: "Does that have a basis with both of us?" Uff, such basic questions so early, I thought to myself, put it on your youth, and answered in my comforting dizziness perhaps a little cryptically: "It was beautiful with you from the beginning; be as you are; you don't need to play any other role" You understood that, my green spring love.

Unfortunately, you were quickly pumped out. Even though you have such stamina. 5 ml I found unfortunately somewhat poor.

"I'm shrinking," you shouted, and I got scared. "You lookfantastic!" I shouted desperately, and I didn't know why I hadn't asked "Che ne dici di far colazione insieme domani?" better. Anyway. You told me that there were other people interested in you, men, but also women, gender relatively unimportant, and that you were not monogamous if I had a problem with that. And I said, "Bi? Pan? How wonderful! I'm not, but I'm not jealous. I also live and spray according to the motto: You're not the only one in my life, and you're not my only love either."

You looked at me with delight and asked: "So we're officially together now?"

I took you in my arms and said, without thinking long and hard, still quite enchanted by the last six, seven, eight hours: "Yes! Yes! - Only in case of a wedding you should perhaps change your last name."

PS: Forgive me, my first :)