Most of my life, I’ve been listening to all of my Canadian relatives tell me, “Everything’s better in the United States.” Well, yeah, maybe that’s the case from a purely capitalist standpoint – we Americans do love our shopping malls, department stores, et al, but from a quality of life perspective, that wouldn’t be my primary reason for picking up and moving from Canada to the United States. I’ve made the strenuous argument over the years that this is not the case (especially not at present), but my wacky but lovable family refuses to listen to me. Now, with US and Canadian currency practically at par, and a good many of the American chain stores open for business in the larger Canadian cities, there really isn’t much lacking as far as selection. But, if we’re talking drug store chains, I must defer to the Canadian chain, Shoppers Drug Mart. If you happen to be a mainstream fragrance and beauty addict, hands down, this is the place to go. Walgreens, CVS, Eckerd and the rest can’t hold a candle to the newly re-vamped Shoppers Drug Mart stores. Personally, I can disappear into one for hours and emerge significantly lighter in the wallet. It’s gotten to the point that I almost deliberately forget to bring certain toiletry items with me when I visit my Toronto relatives, just so I have an excuse to go to Shoppers. Oh; forgot my deodorant? I gotta go to Shoppers. Can’t walk around all stinky now, can I?

Years ago, Shoppers Drug Mart was just your basic run-of-the-mill drug store chain. There was absolutely nothing extraordinary about it; you went there for your prescriptions, shampoo and other toiletries and that was about it. About 4 years ago, I happened upon a newly-opened Shoppers location when I was genuinely in need of something – I can’t recall what anymore, so I wandered in and was promptly blown away by this new store. It was sectioned off into two areas: one, with high-end cosmetics and fragrances – Lancome, Dior, Chanel, Clarins and other department store-staple brands, displayed so that you can sniff, touch and test to your heart’s content. The other side had the usual array of drugstore makeup brands and fragrances, along with the coveted French skincare lines, Vichy, Avene and La Roche Posay, which used to be almost impossible to get in the US. The rest of the store wasn’t too shabby either: all the toiletry basics, a special section devoted just to vitamins and supplements, pharmacy, greeting cards, housewares, groceries, photo processing, post office…this place seemed to have it all. I must have had that deer-in-the-headlights look when I was approached by a sales associate in the high-end cosmetics section, because the first thing she asked me was if I was OK. I said I was fine, and asked, where did all this come from? She told me that this was one of their new concept stores, and at that time, was one of only two in the Toronto area. They were testing the layout and the merchandise to see whether or not Shoppers could be one of those “destination” type stores, where you could pick up everything from a container of milk to a bottle of Chanel No. 5. I guess their formula was successful since more of these stores have opened in the Greater Toronto Area, as well as existing locations undergoing renovations to update them.

Now, virtually every Shoppers location has morphed into one of these destination stores you can play in for hours if you so choose. Their list of brands has expanded to include BeneFit, Smashbox, L’Occitane, Boots No. 7 and other new lines that seem to pop up every time I go in there. Speaking of Boots, I can see where the inspiration for this type of store came from since I think Shoppers borrowed a lot of their layout from the Boots chain in the UK. I did happen to get lost in some of those stores when I visited London a few years ago.

What I can’t seem to figure out at this point is why this type of drugstore/beauty emporium/lifestyle store hasn’t migrated southward, tickling the fancy of any of the major drug store chains here in the US. Granted, we have become oversaturated with Sephoras in recent years, but Shoppers has a completely different vibe to it. I really enjoy the fact that I can shop for both high-end items and drugstore items in the same location, whereas Sephora stocks only high-end lines. Plus, the convenience of being able to buy laundry detergent, Tylenol and other such items completes the shopping experience in such a marvellous way. Where I live, Walgreens seems intent on taking over the world, and the CVS, Rite Aid and Eckerd stores are so dingy and neglected looking that I rarely patronize them. A few CVS locations have added a couple of the French skincare lines I mentioned earlier, but they’re displayed in the same nondescript manner they stock everything else. The new Shoppers stores are clean, well-lit and organized to a fault. There’s some marketing genius at work here; not that I really care about that sort of stuff, but whoever is responsible for implementing these changes gets high marks from me for vision. When I’m at home in New York, traversing the suburban retail landscape and all the American drugstore chains, I think – boy, I would really love to have a Shoppers here.

I would love for any Canadian readers to weigh in on their feelings about Shoppers. Here in Toronto, they’re pretty much the only game in town. I know of a few Rexall/PharmaPlus locations, but not many. My family thinks I’m a bit off my rocker for waxing rhapsodic about a drug store, so I’m in need of some validation!

I originally wrote this a few months ago, and want to share it with all of you now, given my newfound love for the department store gem, Estee Lauder Sensuous.

As we are now in the midst of a recession here in the United States (don’t kid yourselves folks, it’s not coming, it has arrived like a biblical plague), I’ve been on something of a mission trying to find beauty in the many department store fragrances I’ve ignored over the years. Yes, I am a “niche snob”, mostly wearing scents available exclusively online, or in places that would require a very expensive plane ticket in order for me to buy them in person. Despite my admission of snobbery, I do tend to, on occasion, troll the shopping malls looking for something inspirational. Sadly, the malls in my area are now filled with empty walled-off spaces and there are no exciting “Coming soon…” signs to indicate that there will again be life in these barren retail shells. That they are simply gone is indicative of the hard economic times that have now befallen those of us in the dwindling American middle class.

Hard times have suddenly and severely curtailed my niche perfume habit to the point that I’ve been looking for a fix at the department store level.  I’ve been “slumming”.  Sure my current collection could keep me wonderfully and excessively fragrant for the rest of my life, but as a perfume lover, there is never enough. I am always on the trail of something new and exciting, but I’m beginning to realize that my avoidance of what’s out there in the fragrance Zeitgeist has been for good reason.

There are two things contributing to my malaise: Firstly, a good many of the department store fragrances I’ve smelled recently have two things in common: fruit and flowers. Secondly, I read Chandler Burr’s latest book, The Perfect Scent: A Year Inside the Perfume Industry in Paris and New York. Admittedly, the book was more of an olfactory wake-up call than the actual concoctions I was sniffing. Who among us can claim insider status in the world of commercial fragrances the way Chandler Burr can? I may not be a New York Times book critic, but I say with heartfelt honesty that reading this book has completely changed my perspective on fragrance; especially the mass-marketed scents for sale in department stores. I’m not saying there aren’t any appealing options, but more often than not, there is safety rather than edginess; fresh, clean and friendly as opposed to lewd, nasty and interesting.

Of course, not everyone wants to smell like jasmine left to macerate in an ashtray (Etat Libre d’Orange’s Jasmin et Cigarette), but on the flipside, if my only choices were Ralph and Tommy Girl, I’d blow my brains out. Well, not literally, but you know what I mean. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the art of fragrance – I do now, thanks to Chandler Burr. Generic department store fruity-florals are, after all, the creations of artists: Perfumers. But, when it comes to scents created to appeal to the masses, these artists are not invoking their own creative instincts; they are given an olfactory road map laid out for them by a bunch of marketing execs in monkey suits sitting in a boardroom. I have this vision of Donald Trump sitting, “Apprentice-style”, at the head of a table the size of a hockey rink with Jean Claude Ellena, Dominique Ropion, Olivia Giacobetti and Michel Roudnitska, giving each one of them grief for screwing up the task assigned to them. I can literally hear it: “Jean Claude, your version stinks! YOU’RE FIRED!”

I have great admiration for these artists and their willingness to comply with the marketing wishes of the monkey-suited set. They are paid handsomely for their time and trouble, so why not? But, there’s got to be some degree of frustration at having their creativity stifled in the name of capitalism. Long before I knew who Chandler Burr was, some of my favorite niche fragrances were those created by the perfumers I mentioned: Parfums DelRae’s Bois de Paradis by Michel Roudnitska is a scent I adore, along with Bvlgari Eau Parfumee au The Vert by Monsieur Ellena, Idole de Lubin by Olivia Giacobetti, and Frederic Malle’s flat-out amazing Carnal Flower, courtesy of Dominique Ropion. Of these, only Bvlgari’s green tea scent is now considered mainstream. When it was introduced in 1992, it was something new and different. The others wouldn’t be able to command even an inch of a square foot of retail space in the fragrance department of any American mall-anchoring department store. It is partially for this reason that I love them so much. When I put them on, the likelihood of running into someone else wearing the same scent as me is pretty slim; except maybe if I’m spending a fair bit of time browsing at Barneys, Bergdorf Goodman or perusing the offerings at Henri Bendel. But, given my present financial state: penny-pinching and prowling Macy’s, Bloomingdales and Nordstrom, I am more likely to be assaulted by Angel or whatever the fruity-floral celebu-scent du jour might be.

It would be unfair of me to conclude this essay without revealing some mainstream perfumes that don’t make me want to blow my brains out. They would be: Sarah Jessica Parker’s Lovely and Covet, Givenchy’s Organza Indecence (a bit hard to find these days, but not impossible), L de Lolita Lempicka, Donna Karan’s Cashmere Mist, and her very first scent, Donna Karan New York, Burberry Brit, Kenzo Amour, and my most recent discovery, Max Mara Le Parfum. This is just a partial list.

In happy times, as well as not so happy times, I can manage to find scents that will lift my spirits, regardless of their cost and availability. It all depends on how motivated I am to look for them. There are gems hidden everywhere, even in department stores.      

By Nava

If there was ever any doubt as to whether the behemoth cosmetics and fragrance companies are paying attention to what’s going on in the world of niche fragrances, Estée Lauder’s latest offering, Sensuous, is absolute proof. They have succeeded in bringing a woody feminine scent to the department store masses.

Off the top of my head, I can think of a bunch of niche scents that I love, that are reminiscent of Sensuous. I’ll get to them a little later on. First, I must say that I am not especially adept at comparing a scent to a feeling, or a scenario, the way Luca Turin and Chandler Burr are so spectacularly capable of doing. What I’m aiming for here is to tie this in with my post from last week, bringing my thoughts together with this fragrance and the massive advertising campaign Lauder will most assuredly inundate us with. So far, Sensuous is exclusive to Bloomingdales, and the ads haven’t reached that in-your-face stage yet.

Speaking of the ads, there is a website, www.sensuousis.com, dedicated to the launch of the fragrance. Earlier this week, I received an e-mail from esteelauder.com alerting me that the scent is now available online at their site. Much of what is on the launch site is now on their company website as well. They’ve certainly done their homework vis-a-vis the advertising: there is a Q&A section with Aerin Lauder, as well as short videos of the spokesmodels, Hilary Rhoda, Carolyn Murphy, Gwyneth Paltrow and Elizabeth Hurley, explaining what “sensuous” means to them. I’m pleased with how this particular bit of the pitch has been constructed; they picked four women to represent different age groups: Rhoda, the twentysomethings, Murphy and Paltrow, the more introspective thirtysomethings, and finally, Hurley as the elder stateswoman in her early forties. Each woman looks absolutely gorgeous in those androgynous white button-down shirts. And, they look womanly – even Rhoda, the youngest, is photographed to portray a maturity that belies her youth. In keeping with their respective age ranges, each woman defines “sensuous” differently as it relates to their particular stage in life. It all sounds very cerebral and intellectual, but I can’t help but be reminded of the scene in the movie “National Lampoon’s Animal House”, when Eric “Otter” Stratton meets up with Dean Wormer’s wife in the supermarket scene where they debate the sensuality of a cucumber. Mrs. Wormer, being older and more experienced, tells Otter, “Vegetables are sensual, people are sensuous.” Later on, we see a drunken Mrs. Wormer show up at the Delta House toga party and have a Mrs. Robinsonesque encounter with Otter. Although, I don’t think Anne Bancroft’s Mrs. Robinson would have ever been as sloppy as Mrs.Wormer.

For her part, Aerin Lauder espouses some very heartfelt sounding thoughts about their newest fragrance offering. She feels that “Women can be sensual at any age,” and how “Each of our models represents a different side of sensuality. Hilary conveys youth while Carolyn’s classic look communicates elegance. As an actress, Gwyneth brings an emotional range to sensuality and Elizabeth portrays confidence and wisdom.” I was intrigued by her inspiration for the ad campaign, “A great photo of Lauren Hutton in a white shirt from the 1970s. It was so timeless and beautiful.” What would have reeled me in completely would be the inclusion of Ms. Hutton, who is now in her 60s and still gorgeous. “Confidence and wisdom” and beauty, certainly don’t diminish after 50.

While I am reasonably impressed with the images and inspiration behind the scent, I feel the selling of Sensuous is done with the same banal marketing claptrap as a thousand other department store scent launches: “Estée Lauder Sensuous was created to evoke the warmest, most feminine side of a woman.” “Her softness. Her confidence and grace. Her strength.” And, my favorite: “You are luminous. You are real. You are Sensuous.” The groupings of the notes go to great lengths to make the scent sound unique and unlike anything anyone has ever smelled before: The “Atmospheric Florals – feminine and airy. A veil of petal-soft textures: sheer jasmine, Ghost Lily, lush Magnolia, and an exclusive Ylang Essence.” The “Glowing Amber – rich, glowing amber pulses with a warm, luminous, feminine passion.” The “Mandarin Orange Pulp – a surprising accent of Mandarin Orange Pulp creates a touch of juiciness to tantalize the senses.” The “Black Pepper – captivating traces of Black Pepper add mystery to the delicious woodiness and sensuality.” The “Molten Woods – a rich mysterious core of smooth, fluid woods exudes a sleek, modern sensuality.” The “Addictive Honey – addictive nectar-like honey blended into the body of the fragrance enhances the warmth lingering deep within.” At this point, I’d like to invoke another strong, sensuous cinematic female character: Susan Sarandon’s Annie Savoy from that classic baseball film, “Bull Durham”, and say in her breathy, Southern-belle voice, “Oh my…”

So what does Sensuous really smell like? Personally, I get none of the “Atmospheric Florals”. On me it is woody and somewhat peppery, which I love, and turns pleasantly sweet as it dries down, leaving me with the lingering honey note, which I find very nice, but not “Addictive”. There is very little amber, and the “Mandarin Orange Pulp” is barely discernable. What truly surprises me is how lightly this scent wears, since if you rely solely on its description, it sounds like one of those really intense woody-amber scents that for me would be akin to wearing a fur coat to the beach. I am a devoutly seasonal scent-wearer; I retire all my heavy incense-y, woody, peppery, spicy scents when the warm weather arrives and never so much as crave them until the first autumnal chill. My initial sniff of Sensuous came courtesy of a scented strip of ribbon given to me by a salesperson in Bloomingdales. It was a warm day and the ribbon was so thoroughly saturated, I thought there was no way I would be caught dead wearing this in the summertime. When I read Robin’s review on Now Smell This, I had to re-evaluate it, and alas, I concur with her completely when she says that Sensuous “[wears] beautifully in the heat,” and is “appealing to both the niche snob perfumista, as well as the general public.” I couldn’t say it any better myself.

Now, back to what Sensuous reminds me of. I got into woodsy, incense-y, spicy, less gourmand niche scents a few years ago. I sampled many of them and came away with a number of favorites: Satellite Padparadscha – when you want something dry, woody and spicy, there’s nothing better than this one. Donna Karan Black Cashmere – this is my “fur coat on the beach” scent which, on a frigidly cold day, could keep you warm even if you were to stand buck naked at a bus stop during a blizzard. Idole de Lubin – sweet, boozy, almost syrupy woods. I think the noses employed by Estée Lauder might have had a snort or two of this one when Sensuous was in its developmental stages. Profumum Olibanum sits at the summit of the niche woods/incense mountain for me: Sandalwood, incense and the merest hint of orange blossom; this scent is perfection. Finally, the grandmamas of the category, Shiseido’s Feminite du Bois and Serge Lutens’ Bois et Fruits. These last two are quite difficult to get one’s hands on (not that that would deter the lovely March), but if you want a scent somewhere along the lines of these niche beauties, you need look no further than the Estee Lauder counter, and will not have to dig deep into your pocketbook (1 oz. sells for US $39.50) for a surprisingly pleasant, eminently wearable fragrance. Sensuous may not be an original by any stretch, at least not to a niche perfumista like me, but I like it. I really, really like it.

This is not a piece about the raging gender debate or a political rant about how pissed-off I am about Hillary Clinton being denied the Democratic presidential nomination. At this particular moment in time, I am interested in Girl v. Woman from a purely fragrant standpoint, and it goes no further than that.

What is it that differentiates a “girlie” or “girlish” smell from a “womanly” smell? And further to that, when is it appropriate to smell like a girl, or to smell like a woman? I’ve read countless entries in the perfume blogosphere and on the message boards about what constitutes “girlie”, “girlish” and “womanly.” I will not even touch the “old lady” moniker since prevailing opinions are that “old lady” is an unflattering description of a scent comprised of face powder, roses and, well, age. I think I have an abundance of life left ahead of me sufficient to tackle that one at a much later date.

Of course, marketing and advertising has much to do with these labels. A woman is expected to adapt to her advancing years by changing her style of clothing, cutting her hair to a certain length, and adjusting her makeup and skincare routines in order to correspond with her age bracket. The same can be said of fragrance, as is illustrated by the print ads we see in all the magazines. It is obvious that scents like Yves Saint Laurent Elle, Miss Dior Cherie and the entire Ralph Lauren “Ralph” line target the late teen/early twenties age range, and more “mature” offerings like Vera Wang’s signature scent, and Estee Lauder’s Beautiful, are marketed to appeal to a woman who has arrived at the “marrying” age. The rest seem to fall into chronological ambiguity, thanks to advances in digital photo-retouching, rendering pitchwomen Sarah Jessica Parker, Nicole Kidman and Elizabeth Hurley stunningly ageless. We can certainly smell like them if we choose to, but realistically, the vast majority of us cannot PhotoShop away the marching of time across our faces and bodies.

So, where does that leave me – a woman of 41? I’ve certainly made a few appropriate concessions in the wardrobe, makeup and skincare areas, and consider myself fairly well preserved for my age. I wear sunscreen year-round; utilize a vast array of anti-aging skin care products, and haven’t smoked a cigarette since high school. Right now, I refuse to consider indulging in any cosmetic procedure, be it Botox or collagen, or any of the other poisons some women choose to get injected with in the name of vanity. I am too big of a wimp to even contemplate any future surgical procedures; I have never been under general anesthesia for anything and I hope to keep it that way.

As for the fragrance issue, I prefer not to attach the “girl” or “woman” labels to anything I wear. Yes, I enjoy scents that are considered “girlie” and those that are “womanly”. I base this not on what the blogs or message boards say, but on my own opinions. Some days, I am in the mood for a scent that is fresh and slightly fruity – but not fruity in the syrupy sweet way a lot of the celebrity scents are. I like Marc Jacobs Daisy, even though I am 20 years past the targeted demographic. It gets the job done on a pleasant spring day, and does not offend when the temperature shoots up to sweltering. Plus, the bottle is so darn cute; who can resist those vinyl daisies? Lately, I’ve been drawn to Bond No. 9 Coney Island, maybe because of the graphic of a futuristic Astroland from March’s Dior Addict post from Monday. Although, I don’t remember that area smelling anything like margaritas and clean ocean air. It was always redolent of dead fish, garbage and Nathan’s hot dogs. Fifi Chachnil is another favorite I like to wear on occasion, but please don’t cue up Aretha Franklin on my account. I love the tobacco smokiness combined with rose and a nice bite of citrus in the background. A lot of fragrance aficionados consider Fifi a very womanly scent, but I don’t buy into the categorization. Lostmarc’h Lann-Ael is one that I keep around for those days when smelling like sugary breakfast cereal is what I need to make it through a stressful day. I’ve been getting into more iris-based scents lately, and really dig Guerlain’s Iris Ganache and Prada’s Infusion d’Iris. What categories do these scents fall into? Honestly, I have no clue, nor do I care. I wear them when the mood strikes, rather than when I want to evoke feelings of girlishness or womanliness. For me, it’s the scent, not the label. If we paid more attention to how we feel, instead of letting the marketing powers-that-be pigeonhole us into specific categories, we’d all be much happier.

 Some days, the girl trumps the woman and vice versa. Nothin’ wrong with that!

The beauty of “Seinfeld” is that everyone has had, at one time or another, a moment in life that occured on an episode of this brilliant show. It may not be the exact same scenario, but close enough to evoke the spirits of Jerry, George, Elaine and Kramer.

I just returned home from an almost three week visit to my family and friends in Toronto. Ironically, the episode when Jerry and Elaine go to Florida to visit Jerry’s parents was on while I was there. The scene where Elaine is struggling to find a comfortable position on the sofa bed and sweating profusely because of the lack of air conditioning is a plight I’m sure all of us can relate to. It’s hard to complain when you’re at the mercy of hospitable relatives, but that’s not to say the accomodations will resemble those of a Ritz Carlton or Four Seasons hotel. More often than not, they don’t.

I hadn’t been in Toronto for over seven months and had a bit of trepidation about what had transpired since my last visit. Usually, someone or something changes radically in my absence and I have to reconcile myself with the new circumstances. It’s not that I can’t handle change; I talk to my family and friends quite often and am kept apprised of all the goings-on. Inevitably, there may be tidbits of information that get omitted during conversations. One thing I can always count on is my aunt, with whom I usually stay, telling me before I get there to “not forget to NOT wear any perfume.” Roger that, auntie; I hear you loud and clear. But what surprises do you have in store for me?

This time, the pertinent information omitted was that my aunt had radically changed her eating habits and will now cosume only organic foods. This mode of behavior sprouted from her being a Weight Watchers devotee, progressed to fanatical bouts of exercising, and evolved into “Evangelical Foodie-ism.” I’m not certain this is a documented condition, but when I showed up on her doorstep, I was lectured sternly about what foods she will not allow into her home:

Her: Absolutely nothing that is not organic or 100% natural. That includes no processed cheeses, breads containing gluten, caffeine, sugar and anything that is high in potassium. Your uncle is on a very strict low-potassium diet. Also, we aren’t eating any red meat; just fish and occasionally some chicken. What is that I smell?

Me: Uh, the body lotion I put on this morning before I left the house?

Her: What did I say about wearing perfume?

Me: It’s not perfume.

Her: Well, please don’t use it. It’s giving me a headache.

Me: Are you sure? I can’t even smell it anymore.

Her: Yes, I can smell it!

Me: OK…

After a night spent tossing and turning on the ancient bed, getting tangled up and sweaty in the fleece blankets that still bore my cousin’s sewn-on name labels from sleepaway camp, I had that feeling of dread all houseguests feel when they realize they would have been better off staying at Bob’s Sleazy Motel, rather than dealing with their nutty relatives. In the morning, a breakfast consisting of a gluten-free organic bagel the size of a hockey puck with organic peanut butter and sugar free organic jam, accompanied by a weak cup of some atrocious herbal tea, convinced me that these were conditions I was not entirely willing to put up with. As I sat at the dining room table watching my aunt document every morsel of food she was consuming in her Weight Watchers food diary, I attempted to chew my gelatinous gluten-free hockey puck (I finally know what vulcanized rubber tastes like), and asked her:

Me: So, where does one purchase organic gluten-free bagels?

Her: They’re good, aren’t they?

Me: (struggling to swallow a rubbery mouthful) Mmmm…yummy.

Her: I get them at the farmer’s market on Saturday mornings. If I’m not there at exactly 7 am, they sell out.

Me: Don’t go to that kind of trouble on my account. I’ll go to Bagel World and get some regular bagels.

Her: No, you will not. What did I say when you got here last night?

Me: What’s so horrible about Bagel World bagels?

Her: They’re unhealthy.

Me: I’ll take my chances.

Her: I refuse to allow them into this house.

Me: (not really wanting to move to Bob’s Sleazy Motel) Fine.

Her: Lunch today will be at 12:30 sharp. You’ll adore the zucchini and carrot soup we’ve been eating. It’s wonderful.

Me: (muttering) Can’t wait.

I showered, spitefully slathered myself in the scented body lotion I was told not to use, and went out for a Tim Hortons coffee and double chocolate doughnut. Yeah, I’ll probably end up in nutritional purgatory for eating this stuff. If I dare to contemplate having a Big Mac for lunch, my aunt might have me committed.

When I got back to the house, after surreptitiously brushing chocolate doughnut crumbs from my shirt and pitching my coffee cup into the recycling bin, the smell of raw red onions and garlic walloped me like a heavyweight prizefighter. In the kitchen stood Louisa, the care-giver hired to help with my aging and, much as I hate to admit this, increasingly infirm uncle. She was up to her elbows in shredded carrots and zucchini. “So you’re the soup-maker,” I said, introducing myself. She just smiled and politely shook my hand. I was told she was hired as a care-giver, not a soup-maker. Apparently, her job description encompasses care-giving as well as soup and salad making. During my stay, I did not witness her administer any care to my uncle. Her sole household activities were to shred copious numbers of vegetables, slice mounds of raw red onions and mince countless cloves of garlic. I could literally feel the the odors of onion and garlic permeate my clothing and seep into my pores. Surely my scented body lotion could not be as offensive as this.

As we sat down to our lunch of Louisa’s zucchini and carrot soup, the following conversation ensued:

Me: Wow, this is good soup.

Her: Really? I can’t taste it.

Me: Why not?

Her: I’ve got the smell of your perfume up my nose.

Me: I told you, it’s not perfume.

Her: What is it then?

Me: Body lotion.

Her: I will not allow it.

Me: Not allow what?

Her: You cannot wear that body lotion in this house.

Me: Well, I’m not exactly thrilled to walk around reeking of onions and garlic.

Her: You do not reek of onions and garlic.

Me: That’s what I smell.

Her: I can only smell that body lotion of yours.

My Uncle: SLURP!

Me: Can Louisa make Mulligatawny?

Her: What’s that?

Me: Never mind…

After leaving a trail of Tim Hortons coffee cups all over the city and eating out with my friends as often as possible, I returned home to my non-onion-and-garlic-scented house relieved to be away from the tyranny, er, pursuit of good health. No that there’s anything wrong with attempting to live a healthy lifestyle, but when it becomes unreasonably obsessive, I find I need to put as much space as possible between myself and those who are guilty of said obsession. I like to think that when it comes to food,everything in moderation is a good thing. But, standing guard in one’s doorway trying to keep out the evils of processed foods and scented body lotion is a bit much; especially when all you can smell inside the house is onions and garlic. I admire my aunt’s determination to be a warrior for good health, and I love her very much, but: be it ever so “unhealthy”, there’s no place like home. I was thrilled to return to my coffee-maker and my extensive collection of scents; not a raw onion or garlic clove in the bunch.

(Ladies and gentlemen– please welcome DUSAN, the author of today’s Friday Guest Post and another bona fide male! Not that Patty and I don’t have ba — well, never mind. Dusan will be hosting today, and enjoy your flight!)

Drip, drip, drip! You wake up to find yourself in a huge red windowless orange whose ceiling is leaking droplets of honey. As you feel your way around, sliding on the slippery floor, you realize that the walls are lined with cookies and truffles. Your hand reaches for a particularly tasty-looking brownie and tears it off the gloopy wall. You’ve hardly taken a mouthful when you hear a sigh interrupting the echoing patter. Unmoved, you proceed to munch on your brownie, sucking it, gulping and groaning with pleasure while you lick your fingers. It’s only when the orange starts wobbling and squishing that you begin to feel a little unnerved. But it’s too late! One by one, the cookies come crumbling away while the patter of honey swells into a steaming shower. Gasping for air, you struggle to keep your footing in the violent orangequake. But as you open your mouth to take in a breath, a walloping dollop lands straight in and down your throat. The rooftop caves in with a bang and even as you are choking, a giant honeycomb crashes down on your face, knocking you down into the pool of goo and out of your greedy consciousness.

This is more or less how I described my first impressions of Paco Rabanne’s latest entry, Ultrared Man, to Robin of Now Smell This. To be perfectly honest, the story could also have been that of two siblings stranded in the woods, trying to trace their way home along a path strewn with breadcrumbs just because their parents felt they needed to spice up their dying sex life. How’s that, you ask? Well, because the rest of the story ties in neatly with Ultrared’s development (notes: blood orange zest, praline, tonka bean, patchouli, vanilla). Although brash and ultrasweet at the opening, twenty minutes in Ultrared shifts from a roar to a purr and from then on it’s basically a skin scent of lovely woody amber (to evoke the witch’s house), praline (the candy) and slightly earthy patchouli (the forest). In my version, the witch turns out to be a loving granny who not only adores children (hers have moved away and seldom visit) but also takes great pleasure in baking them all manner of cakes and tarts. Appalled at the siblings’ sorry state, she takes them in, naturally, and feeds their poor starved bodies back to life. Plump, she says, is how she’d like them to be. At worst, she could be a particularly crafty sales assistant that uses the gingerbread house to lure prospective unsuspecting customers into buying the latest Kylie, Britney and Christina fumes. Did I mention that she works on commission?

Anyway, where was I? Ah yes, the reason why I decided on the orange story instead. Well, simply because for me blood orange is the star in Ultrared. Whether in the big bang of marzipan, vanilla and cookies or long into the drydown of woody praline, it’s always present – either to cut the sugar-bomb with its delicious tart zest or liven up what could well have been nice but altogether flat amber. It breathes and it sighs – and that’s exactly what I want in my comfort-gourmand fragrance. And please, don’t let my over-the-top description of Ultrared’s opening scare you off. It’s just the way it should be. If you are into that sort of thing, that is. For the record, this is not the first time Paco Rabanne has used a praline note in his fragrances. XS Black, a stunning cologne on others but sadly not so much on me thanks to my pathetic sweetifying skin, has a woodsy, strawberry-tinged praline accord that smells amazing atop dark incensey woods.

Ultrared for women I tested briefly on a strip and… it’s really nice, much in the same vein as the men’s, only amp down the woods, add some florals, brighten it up a notch and there you are. Fans of the recent crop of faux-chypres like Elle YSL, Gucci by Gucci and Nina should seek it out. Personally, I like Ultraviolet better, but this one is growing on me.

I’d meant to write up a review of the men’s Ultraviolet but just like so many times before, I sprayed it on and … poof, nothing. Well, something sweet anyway, vaguely minty. Half hour later, the mint is stronger and a vetiver-like note has appeared with a whisper. An hour later, you guessed it right, nothing earth shattering happens, just a synthetic minty sweetness. That’s all I can get out of Ultraviolet, I’m afraid. Which makes me sad because I know men who wear it well and leave a powerful sillage in their wake (!) I guess I’m just an Ultrared kinda guy.

So, my question to you is: what perfume sends you to fairyland?

image source: microanalysis.blogspot.com

 By Matt

(Hey, folks — we’re kicking back for Memorial Day weekend, in our winter coats most likely, given the current temperature. Please welcome regular commenter Matt for this Friday’s guest post! Enjoy the scrolldown…)

Thank God I’m easy. I’m at that acquisitive stage of perfume obsession where I want to smell, wear, and buy just about everything. Niche, drugstore, designer, pretty much anything goes as long as it’s not Acqua di Gio. Not that I have anything against that scent, honestly; simply everyone in my town wears it. Shopping here is limited and I could just never forgive myself for wearing Unforgivable. I want to stand out a bit and I really don’t mind standing out by smelling like the biggest skank in town. Everybody loves a slut, right?

Yes, I’ve learned so much in the past year, reading the blogs, seeing what people think, comparing this, that, and the other. But the biggest sermon the blogs and boards seem to preach is to never buy unsniffed and it’s the edict I manage to ignore the most. Maybe it’s the willful rebel in me, or just the greedy consumer I am. Someone just this week called me the Poster Boy for Capitalism, but really, aren’t we all just trying to keep the economy going? I am proud to say that I’ve yet to make a single unsniffed purchased based on The Guide; I’m not saying I won’t, it just hasn’t happened yet. Luca Turin and Tania Sanchez aren’t my devilish enablers; it’s March the Maleficent and Patty the Priestess of Purchases and dear, dear Lee (don’t we miss him?) and the rest of you merry band of rogues who lead me into temptation, much to the chagrin of my student loan lender and the delight of my credit card company. I buy unsniffed all the time. But it’s not my fault.

The crazy thing is, I’ve never regretted a single unsniffed purchase and I’ve made some crazy ones. That’s why I thank the good Lord that I’m easy. ‘Cause y’all have led me down some dirty back roads and I’ve loved every minute of it. I can’t imagine being without any of these bottles I’ve bought just because y’all stirred up a hunch in the base of my filthy little brain.

First and foremost, Yatagan–and I think a whole bunch of you are responsible for this one. First spray, I smelled nothing but beef stew. Second go round, “Dude, who’da thunk of using CELERY in a fragrance.” Third time’s a charm and I was ready to destroy the world. I loved it from then on and it’s now what I wear when I plan on taking sh!t from no one. Thanks to you all; I can’t imagine life without it.

It only gets worse. CB Musk Reinvention. Full bottle purchase, unsniffed. I loved it from the very first whiff. Thank you very much, March. You’re a prophet of skank and I owe you my soul if I ever get it back from the devil. I also need to thank tmp00 from PST for his glowing words as well on this one. Like him I wear it alone, I layer it with Yatagan, as well as just about every other scent I own. Just whenever I want to dirty things up. I’ve never received a single compliment on this fragrance and I simply don’t care. The first time my bf smelled this one, he asked me never to wear it again. You know, that’s only gonna make me wear it more.

Success with these two purchases and I felt like I could never go wrong. I couldn’t and I didn’t. Patty sold me on Bvlgari Black and I knew to expect something weird, but I never really knew to expect a weirdness that worked so well on me. I actually do get a lot of compliments on this and it’s usually from people who have no interest whatsoever in fragrance. People might not have perfume, but we’ve all got tires, right?

Andy Tauer. I’m not gonna carry on too much because I always end up gushing like a giddy school girl. But I’ve got full bottles of all his stuff except Orris (damn limited editions, I’m always a day late and a dollar short). Pretty much all of those were ordered unsniffed thanks to some beautifully written reviews by Marina at PST, particularly L’Air du Desert Marocain and Lonestar Memories (Scentzilla’s review also helped sell me on this one). The new incense ones I did win samples of and Maroc I hesitated with my sample because of the “pour elle,” but I swear that’ll never stop me again. I love them all and he’s the only perfumer I’d buy unsniffed just because of the name on the bottle.

Did I mention Jicky? In the extrait? Full bottle purchase, again, unsniffed, and that one wasn’t cheap, my friends. I actually trembled a little when I hit the Complete Purchase button with that. March again with this one, but I’d grown to trust her since I felt she’d pegged the inner workings of my head and heart. My only complaint with this one is the bottle and stopper. It’s kinda cumbersome for a guy with clumsy fingers and no coordination or grace. I just decant it into a spray bottle and spritz away. See, I told you I’m a slut. I know I should be ashamed, but it’s just too darn fun.

Sometimes I throw an extra unsniffed bottle in my shopping cart just to get free shipping. I’m an etailer’s dream come true. Dior Homme I got just for that reason. Habit Rouge, it was Guerlain and I’d had two glasses of wine. Cartier Declaration–Lee loves it so it had to be good. There’s a bunch more, but I gotta stop; one should always hold a little something back, it keeps ‘em wanting more. A slut’s credo if there ever was one.

But I keep on doing it. Luckily enough, I ain’t been let down yet. Surely a day of disappointment will come, but I’m not afraid. I know if I end up with something I hate, odds are, one of you scoundrels will be more than willing to give it a happy home, a loving haven for a rescued perfume, ’cause at the end of the day, you’re all just freaks like me. And I thank you for it from the bottom of my wicked little heart.

beefcake photo: Abercrombie.com

By Nava

My cousin T* always used to say she was “allergic to stupidity.” This was a woman whose house alarm code was the numeric equivalent of the word “genius” and was the most outspoken person I’ve ever known. Unfortunately, she succumbed to breast cancer 3 years ago after a valiant 12-year fight. She wasn’t what I would call a devoted fragrance lover, but she loved to wear Diorissimo on occasion. Towards the end of her battle, the various medications and chemotherapy treatments she endured killed her taste buds, but ironically ratcheted up her sense of smell. She developed a serious intolerance to most things scented, and let everyone know just how sensitive her nose had become.

While I was staying with her, the complaints would range from the scent of my shampoo, deodorant, and she even made a comment about my unsavory fragrance one morning, upon returning to her house from the gym. I felt like the Peanuts character “Pig Pen”: you know, the kid who was always dressed in dirty clothes and enveloped in his own personal cloud of filth. I had to replace all the scented toiletries I was using with unscented alternatives, and wearing perfume was completely out of the question. Even the Diorissimo was off limits. I cannot even imagine how horrible this must have been – to not be able to taste the very nourishment needed to keep strong in the face of insidious disease, and to have every scent in your midst mercilessly assault your nose. It is my hope that future cancer treatments will be more easily tolerated; that is, until a cure can be found. No one should have to suffer the way my beloved cousin did.

Cancer patients are by no means the only segment of the population who are sometimes unable to withstand powerful odors. Fragrance-related allergies are becoming more common, but who among us can say they have never been trapped in an elevator or other close quarters with someone (men, you are by no means exempt here), who has OD’d on the eau d’whatever? I bring this up because I recently had the misfortune of exposure to some fellow fitness enthusiasts at my gym, who were bathed in overpowering fragrances. These were not the scents of strenuous workouts; I can deal with those. I know for certain that my own personal brand doesn’t smell anything like roses.

Why is it that some individuals feel the need to saturate themselves with liberal dousings of Angel or Chanel No. 5 before embarking on a 30 minute stint on the elliptical trainer? Is it not common knowledge that body heat elevates anything scented that happens to be on the skin? Or, is this a secret only fragrance aficionados are privy to? I know a very lovely woman whose husband plays ice hockey, and when she washes his gear, uses at least twice the recommended amount of scented fabric softener to counteract the stench of his garments. I have taken to referring to him as “April Fresh”, unbeknownst to her, of course. But, the smell is unmistakable. I’m somewhat surprised that none of his teammates have commented on his waft, since the odor of game-worn hockey equipment is anything but fresh smelling. Hey, if no one else minds, then I am content to remain mute. Good thing his last name doesn’t happen to be “Downy”.

As for my fellow gym-rats: STOP! Stop trying to mask the smell of your unwashed bodies with liberal applications of scent! Or, if you’re an après-work workout devotee, please go easy on the eau before showing up at the gym. I prefer my workouts in the morning, but there are plenty of occasions when I partake in a late-day session if it is more convenient. I don’t think I can comment with any accuracy which time is worse: morning or evening. It doesn’t matter how loud I crank up the volume on my iPod, or how far away I am from the offending individual; once my nose hones in on whatever it smells, all bets are off. I have yet to confront anyone, but I’ve come pretty close on more than one occasion. No offense intended to those who wear the scents I’ve mentioned, but please keep in mind that there are certain times and places where no scent is better than the most minuscule applications of those scents I used as examples. We’re all going to wear what we love, but we need to try to be more mindful of when we wear it.

*I wrote this to honor the memory of my cousin T.L., whose last bottle of Diorissimo I bought for her. What remains of that bottle, I wear every year on March 6, the anniversary of her death.

I was unable to make it to the Sniffapalooza 2008 Spring Fling, but I did go on a sniffing expedition last week in New York City with a couple of lovely friends from makeupalley.com. One of the fragrances I was determined to sample was Guerlain’s Mitsouko, after reading and listening to Luca Turin and Tania Sanchez wax rhapsodic about how it is, in their opinions, the most spectacular perfume in existence.

I preordered Perfumes: The Guide from amazon.com back in January after reading about it online. I must first say that I’ve admired Luca Turin since reading Chandler Burr’s The Emperor of Scent and Mr. Turin’s now defunct blog. I wasn’t necessarily interested in what he was saying about specific perfumes; I greatly admired his writing style and his ability to describe scents in ways I cannot, no matter how many cups of coffee I drink or how many synonyms I look up in my trusty thesaurus. His style is so effortless, it seems like the words just come tumbling out like ice cubes from the fridge dispenser. I’ve written a great many essays and research papers over the course of the past 8 years spent earning my Bachelors and Masters degrees in English Literature, and when I look back at some of them, including one that I wrote last year that a professor enthusiastically suggested I try to publish, I wonder: where the hell did these come from? I have no idea how I ever wrote them, let alone got decent grades for them. And then it hit me: the grades are just as subjective as the papers, given that they are read and graded by different individuals, just like the perfumes Turin and Sanchez were either loving or hating in their book. This thought stayed with me the entire time I was sniffing my way through Manhattan. Now, I will recount some loves, hates and disappointments, bearing in mind that these are my opinions, and not those of any other individual.

We started the day at Barney’s and I was intent on purchasing a bottle of the newly re-issued Nana de Bary Green, which I love, but was deprived of most of my last bottle by the silly bulb atomizer. Bulb atomizers are evil little things and should not ever be used, even when spraying pesticides. I lost about three-quarters of this wonderful crisp-green spicy scent to evaporation. The other scent I was hot on the trail of was Serge Lutens’ newest export, Five O’ Clock Au Gingembre. I’ve read all the tepid reviews, but since you all now know what a Serge hound I am, I was intent on loving it. And, it is spectacular on me: lots of smoky tea, honey and tart ginger. I’d love to layer this with Fumerie Turque, but I’m not sure I can bring myself to open my bell jar…
From Barney’s we made a quick stop at the Hermes boutique across the street. I was curious about the newest Hermessence scent, Brin de Reglisse. I love lavender and black licorice, but not necessarily in concert with each other. Sadly, this was all black licorice on me, and I wasn’t about to spend $200 to smell like a bag of Nibs. I also wanted to give Osmanthe Yunnan a whirl, since I adore Parfum d’Empire’s Osmanthus Interdite. That one too, was a bit disappointing. On me, Osmanthus Interdite has much more depth and personality. In addition, the only Hermessence that has any tenacity on my skin is Ambre Narguilé, which I love. My other favorite, Rose Ikebana, is gorgeous, but disappears much too quickly.

Our next stop was Bergdorf Goodman, home of the venerable Guerlain boutique and countless other delightful and expensive brands. I used to work in this area of Manhattan years ago, and I remember when the cosmetics department at Bergdorf’s consisted of maybe half a dozen small counters, and a fragrance area that was tucked into an out-of-the-way corner you’d surely miss if you didn’t know it was there. Their current beauty floor is paradise with one caveat: some overly aggressive sales associates who tend to swarm like mosquitoes over a puddle of stagnant water. In my experience, the fragrance-hawkers are pretty soft-sell compared to the makeup and skin care brigade, who attempt to club you over the head and drag you away to their respective counters. Something tells me they’re not selling as many $1300 vats of Crème de la Mer as they once were.

Before we approached the Guerlain boutique, we stopped to smell the new Chanel Exclusif, Sycomore. I must reveal that I have never been particularly fond of any Chanel scents, especially No. 5 (Turin’s and Sanchez’s other 5-star favorite). But there are actually a few of the Exclusif scents I like: No. 18, Bel Respiro and especially Coromandel. No. 5 has never worked for me in any incarnation, even the new Eau Premiere, which starts off bright and citrusy, but dries down to, well, the original No.5. I liked Sycomore instantly, even though I was experiencing mutiny on my skin between the previous scents I’d tested. I was pretty sure I wanted to buy it, but wanted to wait until after I deliberated on Mitsouko.

At the Guerlain boutique I asked for a spritz of Mitsouko Eau de Parfum, as well as the Eau de Toilette. I elected to stay away from the Parfum in the event that I would react violently to it. One usually does not want to toss one’s cookies at the feet of just anyone, particularly in the upscale setting that is Bergdorf’s. Conveniently, the bathrooms are located mere steps from Guerlain, but I still did not want to take a chance.

Mitsouko EDT did not last very long on me – I didn’t get much from it except for the peach note Turin and Sanchez spoke of, and alcohol. It literally disappeared in minutes. The EDP was another story: it camped out on the back of my left hand, built a fire and was still smoldering the next morning before I finally showered it off. The verdict: not me; unless I were to throw out every single pair of my jeans, every t-shirt, every pair of comfortable shoes and decide to stock my wardrobe with Chanel suits, pillbox hats, white gloves, lady-like pumps and go for high tea every afternoon at 4 o’ clock. I am just not the Mitsouko kind of woman.

Wardrobe and lifestyle issues aside, I do appreciate Mitsouko on a different level; it truly is a beautiful scent. Unlike the many aldehyde and chypre scents I normally avoid, the EDP in all its glory never gave me a headache or offended me so that I couldn’t wait to scrub it off. I even asked the opinion of an especially pushy Bergdorf sales associate, who I unintentionally let wreck my less-than-a-week-old manicure with an Yves San Laurent Beauté nail polish pen. I bet if Mitsouko was an YSL fragrance, she would have tried to sell me a gallon of it. I think her opinion was something to the effect of, “It is beautiful, but it’s not you.” And, I never bought that ridiculous nail polish pen. However, I did go back to Bergdorf’s later on that day to snag the very last bottle of Sycomore. Despite it being a Chanel scent, it’s much more “me” than Mitsouko will ever be.

From Bergdorf’s it was on to Henri Bendel. I have been longing to try Isabel Capeto’s first fragrance since reading Patty’s glowing review of it. I must defer to her description from her post back on January 7 of this year (More NYC – Part II), and agree that it is wearable without being generic and that bottle is just the bee’s knees. Since Patty’s review, there is now Isabel Capeto Perfume II in a white bottle identical to the red one. Unfortunately, the second scent is nowhere near as good as the first one; I was afraid to test it on my skin after smelling it on the scent strip: it was the very frightening scent of grapefruit juice gone bad. Unless you happen to enjoy an exceptionally bitter citrus scent – think bitterness that surpasses Frederic Malle’s Bigarade Concentrée, stay far, far away from this one.

By the time I’d doused myself in Isabel Capeto and sniffed a few more of the Memoire Liquide scents that I had the opportunity to sample (and buy) at a Sniffapalooza preview event last year (Mystique and Soixante-Six are woody-hippie fabulous), I started getting heavy-duty nasal fatigue. While my cohorts were still busy sniffing away, I was mostly snorting the jar of coffee beans in the L’Artisan Parfumeur alcove. Granted, I was the most enthusiastic sampler, having at least half a dozen scents lingering on my skin. That’s the problem I think every serious scent aficionado faces on a regular basis. You sniff and spray, collecting those paper scent strips like playing cards, manage to keep a poker face for as long as humanly possible, until you reach that breaking point when your nasal passages cry “uncle” and you can no longer handle any more new smells. I don’t care what anyone says, but even a prolonged snort of the most potent coffee beans can’t stave off nasal fatigue after too many hours of serious sniffing. I think the heavy-duty rose in Etat Libre d’Orange’s Rossy de Palma scent did me in. Although their Tom of Finland scent, which I inadvertently kept calling “Tom of Maine”, with its clean, dry cedary goodness, left me another $90 lighter. And, many thanks to my dear friend M for buying me the coveted bottle of Isabel Capeto for my upcoming birthday.

After Bendel’s, we headed across the street to Takashimaya. At that point, I felt like someone locked me away in that Frederic Malle sniffing booth at Barney’s. My feet were killing me and despite the copious coffee bean-snorting, my nose was still staging a revolt. In Tak, the only scents I was interested in were the Neil Morris ones. A lot of people in the blogosphere and on the chat boards are raving about his extensive collection of scents, but the ones that I’ve smelled have been a bit disappointing. I remember meeting him at the Sniffapalooza 2007 Spring Fling, and thinking he was a very nice guy, but the few scents of his that I sampled were not very inspiring. I re-visited his scent, Clear, at Tak and felt the same way a year later. His range is so extensive; it would take weeks to evaluate all of them; someday, maybe, when my nose is not quite as tortured.

When my friends and I embarked on our fragrant journey, I was sure it would not be as exhausting as the Sniffapalooza extravaganza tends to be. I have yet to participate in both days consecutively since I am usually comatose by the end of the first one; my kudos to all the ladies and gentlemen who manage to make it though both. Maybe my close proximity to New York City has something to do with my lack of stamina. I am lucky in that I can hop on a train or in my car and be at Bergdorf’s doorstep, or any number of fragrant establishments, in under an hour.

As for my “suggestions”, I will conclude by saying that perfume, whether it is thought to be good or bad, is an intensely subjective and personal endeavor, just like art and literature. What Luca Turin and Tania Sanchez happen to like or love might not be what I like or love. Suggestions are just that; there are no hard and fast rules, and it is up to you, the individual, to interpret them as you see fit. I didn’t get an “A” on every paper I wrote as a student, and I never expect everyone to agree with every single one of my opinions. The beauty of life, whether we go through it fragrantly or not, is that we have the ability to make choices. We celebrate our individuality with the choices we make, and it is ultimately our very personal decision to ignore suggestions or consider them. Please, feel free to tell me to stick mine where the sun doesn’t shine. To that, I will always say thank you.

(hi, folks — here’s a guest post by Nava, a regular reader and contributor at Perfume Critic and Makeupalley, and a commenter at the Posse as well as other scented and unscented blogs. She lives in New York with her husband and cat, and loves to be a contrarian in her spare time.)

I am convinced the act of hoarding is hereditary. The female members of my immediate family have proven to be fine examples of this art of “collecting”. My maternal grandmother hoarded food; she survived the Great Depression after emigrating from Poland to Canada after World War I. In better times she also hoarded bed linens, table cloths and tea towels. We’re not talking cheap stuff, either. The finest Irish linen you could bargain for on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, purchased during a time when you could bargain for such things. Unfortunately, I never got to witness my grandmother in all her bargaining-mode glory, but I did see all her purchases come tumbling out of the hall closet after her death when I was 9 years-old. As my mother cleaned out her apartment, she could not bear to part with all the pristine linens that never graced a bed or table. Since my mom’s passing, they now reside carefully stored in my attic, along with other family treasures. But the hoarding did not end there.

I have a Serge Drawer. Yes, a drawer that contains nothing but Serge Lutens fragrances. My drawer is not part of a girly, organza-skirted vanity table or antique armoire; it is one nondescript drawer of a 17 year-old Ikea pressboard dresser that I bought when I moved into my first apartment. I used to keep underwear in this particular drawer. It is a top drawer after all. But now it houses 15 export bottles and 23 bell jars, all of them still shrink-wrapped and just as pristine as my grandmother’s 50 year-old linens. I cannot bring myself to unwrap them, much less consider wearing them. I wish my Bubbie Sarah was still around so I could ask her why she bought all those linens if she never intended to use them. Then, maybe I’d have some insight into my own peccadillo, and an answer to why I never touch any of these bottles of fragrance.

I think a goodly amount of my reticence stems from the exclusivity of the Serge Lutens line, the fact that most of them are only available in one specific place in one particular city. My husband and I took a vacation to Dublin and London 3-1/2 years ago, and journeyed via Eurostar through the Chunnel from London to Paris. Since we were spending only one day in the City of Light, I had only three must-see destinations: the Eiffel Tower, the Mona Lisa (we were, after all, tourists), and the Salons du Shiseido. My husband was quite the good sport whilst I pillaged the Salons; he waited outside. When I finally emerged, we made our way out of the Palais Royale and over to the Louvre so we could do a mad dash through as much of it as possible (reference Mark Twain’s images of American tourists in Innocents Abroad running through the Vatican Museum to get to the Sistine Chapel; been there, done that, too). As we approached the glass pyramid, I wondered why there were not more people milling about, despite the fact that we descended on Paris on a very grey, chilly November day. It was a Tuesday, and you would think we would have known that the Louvre is closed on Tuesdays. No such luck. No mention of it either from the lovely French girl at the concierge desk in our London hotel who very happily almost booked us 2 first class Eurostar tickets which would have set us back about £800. Of course, I prevented that from happening.

Turned away at the Louvre, myself, my husband and my 4 bell jars (Rahat Loukhoum, Muscs Koublai Khan, Bois et Fruits and Cuir Mauresque) went stomping all the way down the Champs-Élysées, to the Avenue Montaigne, past every designer shop and the Plaza Athinée, without even pausing to look at anything. I was following the Eiffel Tower, just like I used to follow the CN Tower all over the city of Toronto when I was a kid. I was a woman on a mission. I kept thinking, OK, I can still make two out of three, with the Meat Loaf song “Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad” earworming its way through my head the entire time.

When we finally reached the tower, and while waiting in line to buy tickets, I noticed what I presumed to be an American couple standing in the snaking line. What gave them away was that the woman was carrying the Frommer’s Guide to Paris, something I flat out refused to buy since I didn’t think we’d need it; we were only going to be there for one lousy day. Armed with just my très, très mal university French and a fistful of Euros, I thought we’d be fine. Of course I inquired of this woman, “Could you please tell me if your guide says which day of the week the Louvre is closed?” She, a very nice lady from Des Moines Iowa traveling with her husband, graciously informed me, “Uh, it says here the Louvre is closed on Tuesdays.” Upon hearing that news, I believe I turned a shade of red non-existent in nature. At least that’s what my husband claims.

On the train back to London, I clutched my bottles of fragrance with the vehemence of a lioness guarding her newborn cubs. I couldn’t help it; they were the most significant souvenirs of my trip, along with my disappointment and frustration. I vowed I was going to hunt down that French concierge girl and beat her senseless for not informing us that the Louvre is closed on Tuesdays. I did make mention that it was one of our planned destinations, but alas, for reasons not known, she never communicated that little tidbit of information. I remain disappointed to this day, since I have not been back to Paris. A travel journalist friend of mine loves to tell people that you should never go anywhere thinking that you will never revisit the place you are going to. Of course, he traverses the globe on the good graces of the airlines and stays at the best hotels in the world for a mere fraction of what Joe Schmo tourist would pay. In all fairness, I must mention that our trip was made possible by his contacts, and if not for them, would have cost somewhere in the neighborhood of a loaded Toyota Corolla.

As I previously mentioned, my Serge Lutens collection has grown significantly from the original 4 bottles. The “export” fragrances can be had fairly easily, but there is just something about those bell jars that elicits a powerful I’ll-walk-barefoot-over-broken- glass-then-wade-waist-deep-through-raw-sewage urge to get my hands on them. I have gone through backchannels and shopping services and of course, the ubiquitous auction site to obtain my bottles. I don’t consider myself overly materialistic, but I will admit that my Serge Drawer houses some of my most prized possessions. I still harbor the dream of going back to Paris one day and re-visiting the Salons, and going back to the Louvre, of course; just not on a Tuesday.