Can scent be tied to national identity? I received this question during a recent interview and the question stayed with me long after the conversation ended. It made me think about how we define ourselves, not only through language or landscape, but through something as invisible and visceral as smell.
My own story is layered. I was born into a family marked by complexity: Ukrainian, yes, but woven with many diasporic threads, braided through decades of dislocation, migration, and return. I didn’t fully grasp just how intricate this tapestry was until I began researching my family history for The Rooster House. Even after the book was already on shelves, I uncovered new archives and met relatives I hadn’t known existed. That’s how I learned that my mother’s side of the family had Roma and Jewish roots, and that my father’s lineage traced back to Tatarstan.
Since moving from Ukraine to the United States at the age of fifteen, I’ve lived in many places. Brussels has been my home for more than a decade. And yet, the place I return to is always Ukraine. That’s where the smells of my childhood reside. And that’s where scent has always felt like a language I understood instinctively.
In my great-grandparents’ home in Poltava, it was the sweetness of lilacs and tea roses. My great-grandfather smoked pears and plums over the cherry wood smoke, and I remember this opulent aroma trailing him on hot summer days. The garden was a scent kaleidoscope of warm tomato vines, earth-caked cucumbers, dill fronds and black currant leaves. My great-grandmother often used a carnation-scented cream, but for special occasions, she kept a small bottle of Climat by Lancôme. Imported, coveted, and carefully rationed. Its powdery coolness signaled elegance, femininity, a trace of the outside world brought into our small orbit.
Perfumes like Dior Diorissimo, Lancôme Magie Noire, and Guy Laroche Fidji were tokens of aspiration during the late Soviet and early post-Soviet years. They weren’t Ukrainian by origin, but they became part of our lives, worn by mothers, aunts, and teachers. To this day, a whiff of those perfumes can unearth whole decades of memory.
Scent, I’ve come to believe, is a cultural document. A coded language of place and time. And even if identities are complex, layered, or fractured, scent can anchor us. It can be the throughline that connects childhood kitchens, city streets, foreign perfumes, and native flowers into a coherent sense of self.
These early experiences also made me realize that scent is never just a backdrop; it’s a central character in the story of how we remember and where we belong. While language can be learned and forgotten, and places can be left behind, scent lingers in memories like a trace of home. It bypasses logic and speaks directly to the emotional self.
What’s fascinating is how specific these olfactory memories often are, not only to individuals, but to cultures. In Japan, the smell of tatami mats warmed by the sun evokes a deep cultural continuity. In Morocco, the aroma of orange blossom water sprinkled over guests is more than a sensory pleasure. It becomes an act of welcome and tradition. In Ukraine, the scents of linden, fermented apples, black soil, or even the metallic note of the Kyiv metro are not just smells. They are anchors of identity.
Even perfumery itself has historically carried national signatures. French perfumery, with its emphasis on refinement and abstraction, reflects one cultural model of beauty. Italian perfumery, on the other hand, plays on voluptuousness and bold sensuality. Soviet-era perfumes, by contrast, were often expressive and dramatic, as they were designed to suggest both luxury and ideology. Today, as independent Ukrainian perfumers emerge, they are not only creating new scents, but reclaiming olfactory memory as part of a larger cultural revival.
For someone like me, whose identity has been shaped by migration, loss, and hybridity, scent becomes a way of reconciling the fragments. It is both personal and political. It tells a story of continuity where there might otherwise be rupture.
And perhaps that’s what makes scent so powerful: it offers a way to belong without explanation. To remember without words. To feel at home, even in transit.
What smells evoke your sense of home or belonging? Are there perfumes that carry the memory of your family, your culture, your story? I’d love to hear.
Photography by Bois de Jasmin
52 Comments
Elizabeth: What a lovely article you have written, Victoria. Thank you. What popped unexpectedly in my mind as I read your article was the memory of visiting my grandmother and the smell of mildew in her back porch. This was a unique but not unpleasant smell for me, coming from the desert dry of S. California to the hot damp climate of summer in Georgia. I don’t know if this contributes to perfumery but it certainly does speak to how scent can recall a place and time from the past. July 25, 2025 at 9:21am
Victoria: Thank you, Elizabeth. What a vivid and tender memory, mildew on a Georgia back porch. It’s fascinating how certain smells, even unexpected ones, can carry so much meaning depending on context. I love how you describe it not as unpleasant, but as a marker of place and contrast. That tension between the dry desert and the humid South must have created such a rich sensory imprint. And yes, for me, this absolutely belongs in the world of perfumery, because it’s where scent and memory meet. July 25, 2025 at 10:57am
Adrienne: Victoria, you absolutely captured the essence of the emotion that I attached to fragrance. I also have moved around the world for the last 50 years and have an extensive The Perfume Connection which I consider my box of memories. Creates such a primal response within as a certain fragrance flashes memories of events associated with that fragrance. I still wear Diorissimo and Fidji today and they evoke such treasured memories. July 25, 2025 at 9:30am
Victoria: Adrienne, I’m so touched by your words, so thank you. “The Perfume Connection” as a box of memories is such a beautiful phrase. It resonates deeply. July 25, 2025 at 10:58am
carole: What a beautiful article, Victoria-thank you.
The air where I live smells of salt all the time. I also love the smell of sweetgrass at the beach, creosote on the wharf, those funny roses that grow wild here-pink ones with four petals that smell so strongly, and white ones with lots of petals that have a more subtle scent. July 25, 2025 at 10:08am
Victoria: Thank you, Carole. Your description reads like a perfume formula in prose: salt air, sweetgrass, creosote, wild roses. I could almost smell each one as I read. July 25, 2025 at 10:58am
Noemi: Lábega, or basil in my mother’s native language Valencian. In August every home in my hometown displays these humble plants and their scent refreshes the torrid Spanish South Eastener summertime. Can you imagine me the first time I tried Chanel Paris-Deauville in the cold New England wintertime? July 25, 2025 at 11:23am
Victoria: What a beautiful image. Lábega on every windowsill, perfuming the hot Valencian summer. I can just imagine the shock and delight of Chanel Paris-Deauville in a snowy New England landscape. Thank you for this vivid and alive contrast. July 27, 2025 at 1:12pm
Klaas: What a beautiful post, Victoria! ‘While language can be learned and forgotten, and places can be left behind, scent lingers in memories like a trace of home’. That’s so true!
Before settling in Amsterdam I was ‘in transit’ for most of my adult life. I had many homes. The scent memories I take with me forever are the smell of the Paris subway (so peculiar!), the smell of shellack (for strengthening point shoes), lavender water (my dad at the sink), tar soap (the bathroom of my parents house), kerosine (the excitement of flying and unknown destinations, works every single time!) and nothing transports me back to the ’80 then Anaïs Anaïs…..I can almost taste it when I think of it! July 25, 2025 at 11:32am
Kiwi: I can relate to this, having also moved around a lot.
Smells are definitely cheaper than flight tickets, and they allow time travel too! July 25, 2025 at 12:52pm
Victoria: I love your phrase, “Smells are definitely cheaper than flight tickets.” July 27, 2025 at 1:13pm
Victoria: Klaas, your scent memories are a poem in themselves. The Paris métro, tar soap, lavender water, each note a portal. I smiled at Anaïs Anaïs as the scent of the 80s. Such a nostalgic and touching detail. Thank you for sharing this evocative list July 27, 2025 at 1:12pm
Klaas: With pleasure ♥️ July 28, 2025 at 10:16am
Tara C: Coastal Canada smells of wild beach roses, pine trees and salt air to me. But the first photo instantly reminded me of my mother’s home on the prairies of Saskatchewan, with the black and white old photos and wheat sheaves. Like Ukraine, Saskatchewan is the bread basket of Canada with rolling fields of wheat. Not surprisingly, we have a lot of Ukrainian immigrants, who must feel quite at home in the environment. July 25, 2025 at 11:36am
Victoria: What a stunning connection between Saskatchewan and Ukraine. Two landscapes of wheat, memory, and migration. I can almost see the prairies through your words. Wild roses and pine, what a beautiful sensory link. July 27, 2025 at 1:13pm
Yafa: Very nice article. Scent is a powerful nostalgic tool. I also remember my mom having Climat and ever since I was a child I never forgot the smell. I finally got my hands on a bottle (EDT) and enjoy it from time to time since it’s so precious to me. Unfortunately growing up in Brooklyn New York nature scents are rare but my mother’s cooking is not. Now if only I could put the smell of tomatoes on the vine in a perfume bottle. July 25, 2025 at 12:41pm
Victoria: Climat really does have that unforgettable presence. I’m glad you found it again. And yes, if only someone could capture the scent of vine-ripened tomatoes. I share that wish with you. July 27, 2025 at 1:14pm
Kiwi: I’ll try to paint an olfactory narrative of my phases of life so far, across a few different places:
Childhood: michelia, lemon myrtle, lavender, citronella, driftwood, mud, freshly cut grass, Lancome Trésor, peas, sheep, sunscreen, feijoas
Teens: Frangipani, pandan, burning paper, durian (argh!), freshly ground soymilk, turpentine, ink, Prickly Heat powder, Hermes Jardin series
Young adulthood: stinky ice hockey gear (not mine!), coffee, cardamom, whisky, pointe shoe paste, galbanum, iris, maple syrup, lilacs, Luria-Bertani broth
I’m still young-ish, we’ll see what’s next 😉 July 25, 2025 at 12:46pm
Victoria: This is a wonderful olfactory diary. Every phase richly layered and alive. I especially loved the mix of pointe shoe paste and Luria-Bertani broth, such a unique blend of science and art. I hope you keep adding to your scent story. July 27, 2025 at 1:14pm
Kiwi: Thank you! Yes, I used to sew my shoes while incubating cell cultures 😁 July 28, 2025 at 12:29pm
Tara C: Brazil, Vietnam and Canada? 😁 July 27, 2025 at 4:32pm
Kiwi: Nearly! New Zealand, Singapore, Canada 🙂 July 28, 2025 at 11:37am
Joy Erickson: Victoria,
Just your words today brought back so many memories of place that were based on smells and fragrance.
I came from the eastern praire of Montana. Rarely do I drive back except for a family reunion. We always roll down the windows to inhale the evening scent of praire grasses and fresh cut hay.
I recall also when staying with my grandmother who when doing the laundry would simmer her homeaid soap before adding the mix to her gas powered washing machine. She often wore Evening in Paris or Tailspin by Lelong, never on her person. She would dab a bit on her hanky and put it in her pocket.
My mother wore Windsong which in perfume form came in a tiny heavy glass bottle with brass trim shaped like a crown. I also recall walking home from school and, I swear, I could smell my mother’s tomatoes cooking a mile away as she made tomatoe sauce and jarred tomatoes
At university I drenched myself with Diorissimo or EA Bluegrass that came in an embossed, frosted bottle.
Those fragrances are now only stored in my memory, but live on.
Thank you for writing such a wonderful article that brought back so many poignant memories.
Joy July 25, 2025 at 1:59pm
Victoria: Thank you for sharing this tender and sensory portrait of your past. July 27, 2025 at 1:14pm
Amy McLaughlin: What a lovely post. An early, powerful memory for me is the salt sea air, sun-warmed pine sap, and roses of the Maine coast. When I was older, I spent summers on a ranch out west and it seems a little odd, but my first memory of acquiring a bottle of real perfume — Mme. Rochas — is out there, not in the city back east where I was from. So Mme. Rochas is strangely entwined with wheat fields, sunflowers, picking chokecherries for jelly. For a couple of years in my teens we lived in Latin America, in a very remote area and the only moisturizer I could get was Nivea. I had a small, treasured bottle of Chanel No. 5. and the two together make me think of being a teenager in the Guatemalan highlands.
Back in the States — NYC — for college, I plunged joyfully into more perfume acquisition. I wasn’t anywhere near sophisticated enough for it, but I wore L’Heure Bleue during my exciting first freshman term. Then I found all the chypres, still available then (if only I had had the foresight to stockpile). I loved the sharp green scents, fell in love with oak moss, which possibly more than any other note (correct me if I’m wrong) denotes ‘old lady’ to people — I loved it as a nubile young thing, so there. July 25, 2025 at 2:58pm
Victoria: Amy, your story reads like a beautifully detailed travelogue of memory. Mme. Rochas in sunflower fields, Nivea and Chanel in the Guatemalan highlands, and L’Heure Bleue in New York. I love how each scent found you in unexpected places and moments. July 27, 2025 at 1:15pm
Marianne: Scent has powerful references to the past for me … my grandmother’s kitchen when she was making custard; the smell of the dining room on the ship that took us across the world to a different life; breathing in the sweet, blessed scent of hyacinths in my little friend’s garden. Later, the sharp, medicinal aroma of eucalyptus leaves as the bush near our home shimmered in the summer heat, branches crackling as they split. At aged 12 a birthday gift of Coty (? I’ll check) Young Beauty, divinely scented bath salts and talc, much admired by my school friends. A later birthday gift of a cake of Cashmere Bouquet soap. My first “real” perfume, a tiny vial of Millot’s Crepe de Chine, to my 16 year old heart a passport to I didn’t know where, somewhere that brought me a sense of wonder. July 25, 2025 at 8:50pm
Victoria: Marianne, your memories unfold like scenes from a novel. Loved it. July 27, 2025 at 1:15pm
Alityke: Garden mint! I ate so much on one occasion my urine went green & mum took me to the doctors! All my childhood houses had mint. Planted on arrival by mum in a place where it wouldn’t take over the garden.
In one house we lived by a small wood with a rookery. The noise of nesting crows & wild garlic are forever entwined in my head.
The sticky floor from spilt beer, cig smoke, leather jackets, entwined with hairspray underpinned by the touch of men’s urinal will always take me back to tiny, Indie/Goth nightclubs of the early 80’s. I’m sure patch oil was in there too. I wore Opium, Jicky or Anais Anais.
The evening smell around the Med just after sunset, salty Hawaiian Tropic coated skin, hot earth, scrub plants, dune grass & herbs accompanied by an orchestra of crickets is a smell of both relaxing & anticipation
Old hospitals with their polished wooden floors imbued with phenolic disinfectant bring a smile to my face. Mum smelled like that after a night shift. My husband & I have both nursed in old hospitals & to me it’s a scent of cleanliness & comfort.
We’ve now been in our forever home for 33 years. The smell of Spanish colognes used as a cleaning agent, ideally Alvarez Gomez or Nenuco, warm dog, husband, the spice & preserves cupboard & whatever I’m cooking or baking. It’s unique & to me that miasma brings joy.
Poison is the smell of our early marriage. I have never been without a bottle. Choc de Cardin is the smell of pre-child holidays.
Oh I almost forgot, the smell of stables, the sweet breath of ponies & the leather & saddle soap of a tack room were the smells of heaven for the teenage me. Liz Moore’s creation Epona immediately takes me back to those more innocent days. Such a fabulous fragrance! July 26, 2025 at 2:54am
Victoria: What a rich and wild symphony of scent. From garden mint to indie clubs, from rookery woods to hospitals and ponies, you’ve created something truly unforgettable. I loved every note, especially the warmth and humor behind your descriptions. July 27, 2025 at 1:15pm
Alityke: Thank you Victoria.
I forgot an important one. English Sundays of the past. Roasting beef, boiling cabbage, potatoes crisping around the meat. Whole neighbourhoods smelled the same!
Here I fed whatever children were here. I still suspect my boys went to their friends for a second Sunday roast! July 27, 2025 at 4:21pm
Victoria: Oh, nice! July 28, 2025 at 9:17am
Aurora: How eloquent you are, Victoria. You possess a rich tapestry of scents to remind you of places and loved ones. So interesting to read about the perfumes that were available in the Soviet Union. I too have Climat and enjoy it, it is not dated at all, your great-grandmother had excellent taste😀
My earliest scent memory is the sweet, electrical scent of the Paris metro (not the RER which smells awful)
My mother’s No 5
My father’s pipe tobacco
My grandmother’s face powder. July 27, 2025 at 3:14am
Victoria: I loved reading your own scent memories. They are so elegant and full of feeling. Climat really does hold its own, and the Paris metro truly has its own unforgettable character. Your words brought it all back vividly. July 27, 2025 at 1:16pm
Mariann: A swiss summer: fresh cut hay, pine needles, rosemary and geranium leaves. My grandmother wore 4711 cologne and carried peppermints. Ive been trying to think what smells I would associate with my other home Santiago and struggling, but definitely a dash of eucalyptus from San Cerro Cristobal hill. July 27, 2025 at 8:06am
Victoria: Oh, your summer scents from Switzerland are so alive. July 27, 2025 at 1:17pm
Federica: Thank you for yet another intriguing article – I just wanted to tell you there’s a typo in the first sentence, you might want to touch it up. Also, would you share something more about the process of researching your family history? It must have been laborious! I have always fantasized about my own. I happen to wonder about perfumes in old-world, pre-industrial rural culture… People would always have their ways, however humble, I guess. July 27, 2025 at 12:46pm
Victoria: Thank you so much!
As for researching my family history, it was long and at times difficult, with many archival searches and emotional surprises. And yes, I believe people always found ways to surround themselves with scent, even in the humblest settings. A sprig of mint, dried herbs, a scented scarf. It’s a whole forgotten language. July 27, 2025 at 1:17pm
Federica: And so long live literature. July 28, 2025 at 12:43pm
Sarah: Growing up on a sheep farm in Australia I have strong memories of the lanolin soaked wooden pine boards of the shearing shed, sticky sap from cypress pine trees, chlorine from endless swimming training, brown zinc cream on my nose, Estee lauder White Linen was always worn by my mother in summer, Fabulon ironing spray, linseed oil on my brothers cricket bat. Boarding school smelt like the hot metal of Sydney train tracks, sweet honey chicken, perfume samples rubbed on my wrist from magazines, my best friends Issey Miyake L’eau D’Issey, and I was given Oscar Della Renta Volupte when I was doing my final exams, sweet orange essential oil in oil burners. Art College smelled like oil paint, turpentine, methylated spirits, patchouli, marijuana, stale wine, salty skin, dirty hair. I used to steal my brothers Calvin Klein Obsession as I couldnt afford any perfume. Lemon eucalytpus was my favourite essential oil as it reminded me of the Aussie bush. I wore Beyond Paradise for a long time after our honeymoon to the Cook Islands. Now I am a candle maker living on a farm again and this place is embedded with the smells of my childrens freshly washed hair, their still warm beds, the lemon eucalyptus in the garden, white lillies in a hospital vase, Dior La Dolce Vita, melted beeswax, spring freesias, winter wattle blossom (so unique!), incense, Estee Lauder Bronze Goddess, wood smoke in winter, Montale Starry Nights, warm bricks, cold plaster walls, and Goldfield & Banks Silky Woods. July 27, 2025 at 6:53pm
Sarah: Oh my gosh, how could I forget my first part time job during art school was working at the perfume counter at David jones department store, and I was promoting Guerlains Samsara and Shalimar. All my clothes smelled of them, and I hated having to wash the beautiful scent out of them! July 27, 2025 at 7:03pm
Victoria: What a vivid memory! Samsara and Shalimar leave such a powerful trail—it’s no wonder your clothes clung to their presence. July 28, 2025 at 9:19am
Victoria: Sarah, your comment reads like a novel of scent. What a life beautifully mapped in smells. I could smell each part as I read. July 28, 2025 at 9:18am
Marianne: Thank you for your reply Victoria, and for initiating this thread. I’ve loved reading everyone’s comments and find myself coming up with more scent memories! I’ll share just one more: the smell of my pencil box at the beginning of the school year … an intoxicating mix of fresh wood, gum eraser and ink that promised a few weeks of perfectly pristine workbooks, neatly written essays and no doodling or crossed out spelling mistakes! July 27, 2025 at 6:56pm
Sarah: Yes! What is that bizarre smell of pencil shavings that reminds me of Coca Cola?? Its always been a mystery to me… July 27, 2025 at 7:05pm
Victoria: I also know exactly what you mean! Pencil shavings have that warm, cedarwood aroma, and Coca-Cola has hints of cinnamon and citrus oils, with a woody hint. Our brains love to link these notes in strange, wonderful ways. July 28, 2025 at 9:19am
Victoria: that image is so alive. Fresh wood, gum eraser, ink… such an innocent, hopeful combination. Thank you for sharing it. I love how scent unspools these tiny, almost forgotten stories. July 28, 2025 at 9:18am
Marianne: Thank you! I’m delighted that you see the innocence, the freshness, that I’ve always associated with these scents … and that cedar pencils evoke Coca Cola! And now I’m suddenly reminded of the smell emanating from the fabric when ironing the pleats in my summer school uniform … made by me aged 11 during sewing classes. So long ago, before mass production … July 28, 2025 at 6:49pm
Victoria: Ah, yes, so true… July 30, 2025 at 4:47am
Dana: I loved reading everyone’s comments here. My own scent memories must include my grandfather’s pipe tobacco. So comforting! July 30, 2025 at 10:15am
Giuseppe: What a brilliant article, very very interesting. I was actually thinking about this the other day, in fact, this matter is something I often think about during those moments where everything is peaceful, steady, calm, and your mind is able to ‘chill’ and navigate some sort of memory lane… but through a sort of sensorial memory, then triggered by scents, rather than the memory itself. It’s a very nice thing to experience, in some cases is joyful, in others is a bittersweet feeling, but it’s a beautiful way to ‘feel’ something o feel closer to someone nonetheless.
I can still feel the fragrance of the tomatoes sauce that my grandma used to cook, carried out thought the house by the gentle summer breeze that will come in through open doors and windows… the strong, yet delicate fragrance of dried basil into the sauce was the main protagonist, a beautiful and distinctive note connected to my grandma. <3
Thank you for this nice and interesting piece of writing.
Giuppy October 27, 2025 at 3:56pm
Victoria: Your memory is so vivid and moving. The way you describe the scent of your grandmother’s tomato sauce and basil makes it come alive. Thank you for sharing such a beautiful reflection. November 11, 2025 at 8:58am