Rutil

No rain. No rain for weeks. The meadows in the surrounding countryside have turned into a miserable steppe. The crops face an abrupt end without further destination. The shrubs bend withered and sluggish. With the last of their strength, the trees pull the dwindling remnants of moisture out of the ground. The sky, brightly whitewashed in blue, cannot bear a shred of a dark cloud. Searing heat and dryness in all corners and actually it only needs steppe runners on the shimmering, dusty streets.
It is missing a lot, the rain, and although I always find it a bit annoying (destroyed hairstyle, speckled glasses, wet trouser hems and striking puddles near the curb paired with ruthless drivers), the longing for it grabs me and so I try to compensate it somehow by Marc Jacobs' Rain. This succeeds at least partially, if one refrains from the relatively short durability and shallow Sillage.
The prelude is showing itself fresh. The rain chord is clearly perceptible and also the top notes, especially through grass and cypress, give a fine, green character. The passion fruit only seems to be a fruity supporting component of the clementine, as it is hardly noticeably pronounced. In the course of time the orchid and sunflower appear soft and flowery-sweetish. The aquatic character does not decay when the perfume disappears and blends pleasantly with the base notes. The musk is flattering and by no means intrusive and melts with tree moss, teak wood and amber to a delicate, spicy and woody green finish without a bitter fiasco

...but not in my direction, please.
It may be due to my general dislike for festivals...thousands of bodies, sweat, mud, loud screams, drunken friendliness...oh, the enumeration may go on forever, but basically the perfume lives up to its title.
In the beginning you immediately hear the smell of leather jackets, a few pieces of a red apple are added and everything is whitewashed in hippiesque patchouli fumes. Wads of smoke soaked in cannabis and tobacco rise up in the background and mix all-encompassingly. Dry, earthy, slightly woody and slightly sweet, the fragrance remains for quite a while until it dissolves. From the initial fruitiness only a very slight hint can be heard. Incense, as well as the violet leaf one must look for, because they really go down unfortunately.
The given period "Woodstock 1969" may seem quite fitting because in the end it smells like old to me and so, with not too much astonishment, I have to find out that two flies are ready to mate near my perfumed arm...a sign! A sign for me to wash my arm thoroughly and to refer this scent to nirvana.

One may think I am crazy, which is no big deal for me, but in the beginning Tilly d'Hermès reminds me of elastic plait straps soaked with chlorinated water, which one tried to loosen from one's hair with difficulty, after one emerged as a little girl from the floods of the urban open-air swimming pool. A thoroughly grotesque impression, somehow synthetic and slightly prickly. This initial impression is quite comforting for me, but only in fractions of a second.
The gentle spiciness of the ginger flirts here with the creamy tuberose in an idiosyncratic way. Flowery, citric, creamy and sharp cumulate to a refreshing but tame affair. Some tension only appears in the course when the sandalwood willingly releases its spice into the composition. The departure happens relatively quickly, ergo the durability is not worth mentioning and is therefore close to midfield. After about three hours I only hear the soft spicy sandalwood with a hint of ginger, unfortunately there is no trace of the fading tuberose.
Twilly doesn't reach ecstasy, doesn't set an example, doesn't get a tit in a triangle and can't trigger an apocalypse, but it's quite nice. Maybe too nice... but in a positive way.

The smog of the big city soaked with sun cream and deodorant.
Overflowing meat rolls in too tight hotpants.
Unskilled feet in sandals - partly makeshift hidden in white tennis socks.
The cramped feeling in crowded trams during rush hour - standing and surrounded by high ripped armpits.
Striking arguments in spaghetti titops.
Incisive experiences of the latest swimwear in the outdoor pool.
A horde of wasps in and around the sundae.
Stung calves and arms by nocturnal pests...
Yeah, it's already on my back... summer. You can literally hear the transpiration in the distance...I make no secret of it - it is not my season. Too warm, too stuffy, too sweaty, too much...

But now anyway, on a beautiful and climatically moderate May day, I followed my shallow drive through the fragrance department of the local drugstore. A display in summery orange literally attracted my nose and so it happened that the tester was extensively following his destiny. The first impression was quite benevolent and pleasantly strong. The classic "4711 Echt Kölnisch Wasser" can truly be heard, but is immediately taken up by the citric notes. Bergamot, bitter orange and lemon are composed fresh and fruity and do not tend to turn into a toilet stone in any way. Neroli and tea keep themselves soft and unsweet in the background and together with the gentian result in a slightly spicy and bitter note. Unfortunately only shortly before the finish of this quite nicely made composition, the base notes are warm and soft to hear. The shelf life is low and lies with +- one hour...one can look at the price and is not further reprehensible for this reason. In principle a sparkling summery skin scent that doesn't make summer palatable to me personally, but is certainly pleasant to wear and unobtrusive at this time of year. Fresh. Citric. Slightly tart and spicy. Good, good, good.