Palonera

I don't know how long I've been trying - three weeks, four, five, six.
Again and again we met, "Boss Orange" and I, one test resulted in the other and left me more helpless.
I paused, put aside the scent, did not trust my nose and not my skin.
Until I had to realize at some point: It's not the nose, it's not the skin - it's simply that we're not made for each other, the scent and me, that the chemistry isn't right as it is with some people.

I'm sure it was a little bit the first time, too.
On the first test, on my impetuosity, which let me splash too carelessly - the sample had no sprayer, but a long rod, which was and is useful, but which remained unnoticed.
That took revenge with throat scratches, stomach pains, a band around my forehead.
That reminded me to be careful next time from now on.

That got better, I'm sure, but not much love.
No little flirting, no flirting.
She is already beautiful, the "Boss Orange", very (!) moderately dosed.
It is warm, sweet, a little scratchy, unfortunately, but that can be overcome.
And orange - yes, yes, yes, it's all coming from the colour.
Otherwise apple without sine, not fresh from the tree, not even from nature.
In the laboratory, it was rebuilt, trimmed to apple porridge, sweetened, without cinnamon.
A bit of wood in the background and around it, here and there a few flowers, sun-warmed skin, a touch of hairspray on top of that - that's not unpleasant at all, it doesn't even come to mind.
Late summer, early autumn, the sun is already low.
Terracotta, amber, a jar of honey gold.

We have tried the scent and I - again and again, still and still.
But love cannot be forced, not to man, not to fragrance.
Even if he scratches and swings his club too much, he doesn't make anything vibrate, hardly triggers feeling or desire.
Boss Orange" looks strangely flat on my skin, almost disembodied - no corners, no edges that lend contour, make it recognizable, unmistakable.
If I met him elsewhere, next week, next year, I wouldn't remember him - from the nose, from the mind.
And that's actually a shame.

1974.
The year in which Germany became football world champion, which cost Richard Nixon his head thanks to Watergate and brought the first IKEA to Germany.
In which Alanis Morisette, Kate Moss and Robbie Williams were born and no one could have imagined what a hype would one day break out about these three tiny creatures.
In the year of punk's birth, people wore mini skirts and overalls, shock colours on bib-like ties, undulating perms and sideburns that almost touched the ban on wearing masks.
The little dove was not yet a little dove and started with a school bag and satchel the way into the seriousness of life.
And Roger & Gallet launched "Vetyver", a Cologne that seems to have landed in the wrong year like a time traveler.

One can only guess what caused the traditional French house, which celebrated its 150th birthday last year, to bring out a fragrance as fine as it is down-to-earth as "Vetyver" in just one year, the taste of which can be described as a little noisy.
It may be that it is due to chance - "Vetyver" was finished and should not have been created for the drawer.
It may also be that one wanted to set an example, swim against the current or simply had a clientele in mind who appreciated a style beyond mass taste which Queen Victoria already appreciated in 1864 and appointed Roger & Gallet purveyors to the court - an honour which was not bestowed on many non-British companies
I don't remember anyone wearing "Vetyver" in my personal environment of 1974 - but in the small town in Sauerland where I grew up, "Tosca" and "Tabac" were the undisputed frontrunners anyway...

Also I had to get my 40th birthday behind me to discover the charm of "Vetyver".
What begins bergamottig-nerolig-citrically like countless other colognes, without teasing or brizzling for even a moment, leaves the hesperide-bright realms after a few minutes and transforms into a woody-spicy scented summer garden, in which carnations, rosemary and other herbs create a Mediterranean, very relaxed afternoon atmosphere
A little cardamom, a hint of nutmeg and a pinch of cinnamon I think I suspect, powerful and yet discreet not very far from my skin away.
Roger & Gallets are not interested in room-filling fragrances, they know how to differentiate between understatement and false modesty.
While I lie with closed eyes in my garden and the sun plays with my naked toes, a light wind rises and carries the scent of dry grasses, a little earth and freshly cut wood to me
All this is combined with the still very present spice notes to create an almost oriental scent impression, which never seems overloaded - all components are too finely interwoven, the composition is too well balanced.
In my opinion, the only downer is the naturally limited shelf life of an Eau de Cologne: After four hours at the latest, "Vetyver" is completely vaporized.


PS: This comment was first posted on 7 March 2013 under the Eau de Toilette, the Eau de Cologne was not yet listed here at that time.
Thanks to Couchlock's attentive reference, the commentary can now be moved to the right place and deleted at its original location.

To anticipate: There's nothing barbaric about this rose.
Not on me, not on my skin.
And not on paper, sprayed for comparison.
Conan the Barbarian would hardly have wet himself with "Rose Barbarian", Arnold Schwarzenegger most likely not either.
Then rather with "Eau de Protection", Rossy de Palma's thorn rose from ELdO, the scratchy, biting, stabbing one with her metal shell.
Hiding a gentle heart, by the way, protected by shield and spears.

None of this is "rose barbarian."
It is neither cold nor hard, nor prick its thorns.
Still young it appears to me and dark pink, the petals lightly beperlt from the morning dew, damp grass and juicy Gehäcksel.
No dark red, no blood, no diva-like behavior.
Grape-sugar sweetness, fruity, juicy, ripe, characteristic of some rose varieties.
Sun warm wood and expensive body powder.
Friendliness, lightheartedness, a smile in the eyes.

Gentle and warm and soft, it develops with time, the rose, from youthful to maternal almost, always rosy, always feminine, always velvety, supple, fine.
Even at 30 degrees and more it is never too heavy, too loud, too much - it almost holds itself back, stays close to my skin, perceptible only to those who are close to me, come close, stay a little closer for a moment.
"How nice you smell!" says a little girl, burying her nose deep in my hair.
"Almost like Sleeping Beauty!"
And it seems to me she's not so wrong about that.

Princes, Grandma had claimed, were the boys on the white horses, blonde-haired, pantyhose dressed, who rushed from far away to rescue princesses from evil witches and fiery dragons, from glass coffins and a castle wrapped in roses.
Princes, I learned later, were partying in Cannes, Marbella, on fancy ocean-going yachts and under the sugar loaf.
Princes played polo and afterwards with pretty girls, drove fast cars and didn't take everything so seriously.
Princes - at least one of them - had clever eyes and thinning hair, stood up for justice, for "all different, all equal".
And princes, I learned, not only loved, but sometimes created perfumes - "Le Prince Jardinier" is one of them, "Prince Matchabelli" a second one.

"Prince Matchabelli", Wikipedia knew, had been a Georgian prince, Georges Vasili Matchabelli, whose passion belonged to the retorts and who left his homeland in the course of the Russian revolution and emigrated to New York.
There he ran an antique shop with his wife Princess Norina, a former actress, before they founded the "Prince Matchabelli Perfume Company" in 1926, which initially offered tailor-made perfumes for a hand-picked clientele.
Ten years later, after the divorce and the death of the prince, the widow sold the company, which changed hands several times in the following decades and is now owned by "Parfums de Coeur".

Whoever invented Cachet: I'm sure the Prince didn't do it.
The scent is too young for that, two years younger only than me.
Whoever sent "Cachet" to me: I'll be eternally grateful.

"Cachet" is fresh, green, bitter.
It's powdery, smooth and clean.
It's leathery, dirty, rough.
If there is sun in the bottle, a dense, dark forest, there is pure soap skin with black leather around it.
A chypre of the best school, grown-up, elegant.
Down-to-earth elegant in tweed and riding boots, not in velvet and silk, especially not in brocade.
Is clear, fresh spring air on a March morning, the ground still hard, unheated and raw.
One afternoon in May, the garden is in bloom, the sun tingles on the skin, eliciting clean, gentle fragrances.
A summer day on the Mediterranean, neroli, white flowers.
Sturdy shoes, dense forests, up the mountain, floor meets stone.
Deep green chypre, white gold chypre, leather chypre every now and then, when the rain falls, the cool wind brushes the cheeks.
Not too loud, never too quiet, always by my side.
Dabistduja, wowarstdubloß, an ever again.
For me, for you, whether man or woman.
And also for king's children.

It was a wet and cold, gloomy November day when I met him for the first time.
I had sought shelter from the lashing rain, the cutting wind that swirled my hair around like autumn leaves and caught itself in the porch of the bus stop.
The bus was late, once again - I was cold and the shop behind me was a refuge in light and warm and fragrant.
There it was, the torso, at the top of the shelf.
A wet dream in satin glass with wasp waist, the bust in DD.
I wore jeans and a parka, just Cup B when I was 25.
Ten minutes later my bus came, I fell out of the store with the torso in my luggage, wrapped in soft and warm, late summer light on apricot skin.

From that moment on, I met him again and again.
He drove bus and train and sometimes even motorcycle, he went with everyone he wore through thick and thin.
He flooded the disco, the pub across the street, the supermarket and even the hospital.
He was omnipresent and at some point too much for me - I didn't want to taste the sweetness of a Hubba Bubba any more, and certainly didn't want to smell it (afterwards), so I filed for divorce and avoided him.
As good as I could.

Twenty-six years later, we met again.
I was still wearing jeans, still parka, at least when it was cold, now and then.
The torso wore an X instead of the corset, the bust didn't seem so big anymore.
"How have you been? Come on, tell me."

He had become calmer, lighter, finer.
A little greener to greet, the brightness dimmed.
Still the character of his youth, still sweet, still chewing gum - but more oranges than their blossoms today, a little acidity, a brizzle here and there.
Relaxed friendliness, charming eye winking, no more push up, no more piled up hair.
Recognizable "Classique", a little also "Ma Dame", not quite young anymore, but not too adult.
A late spring, an early summer morning, when the sun soon warms the garden.
Tight to my skin, he doesn't flood any rooms, not even the car, nobody escapes.
A fragrance for grey and sunny days, for naked arms and furry muff.
Not for the rest of my life - my life - but I certainly won't push him from the edge of my bed...