Victoria: 2669 posts

Colognes are close cousins to gin, vermouth, and other spirits flavored with botanicals. Until the late 19th –early 20th century when denaturated alcohol gradually began to supplant grape spirits as a perfume base, you could safely take a swig of your Eau de Cologne. Today, I wouldn’t recommend it, but take a whiff of Ô de Lancôme, and you can easily imagine it served on the rocks with a twist of lemon. It smells exhilarating–green and lemony, with a pleasant earthy note of wet woods.

If you’re familiar with Christian Dior’s Eau Sauvage, Ô de Lancôme will seem familiar. Launched in 1969, it was Lancôme’s answer to Dior’s marvel–you see, even back then, perfume companies were happily copying each other’s blockbusters just as they do today. But while in the 1970s, it was probably just another nice cologne, today Ô de Lancôme stands out for its classical elegance and nonchalant style. You can easily wear it to the gym, to a cocktail party or even a board meeting: It’s really that versatile.

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For the summer, Bath & Body Works has released an Italy inspired collection. Rome Honeysuckle Amore, Venice Dolce Berry and Capri Seaside Citrus are meant to evoke the Italian sunshine.

Rome Honeysuckle Amore is “a glamorous fragrance,” with notes of Italian Peach, Blackberry, Green Mandarin, Pink Honeysuckle, White Raspberry, Peony, Golden Amber, Soft Sandalwood, and Cypress Wood.

Venice Dolce Berry is about ” ‘la dolce vita,’ the sweet life,” and it includes Pink Plumberry, Apple Blossom, White Iris, Venetian Raspberry, Red Apricot, Frosted Magnolia, Blackberry Musk, Sandalwood Sugar, and Vanilla Biscotti.

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The Iraqi capital Baghdad is associated today with devastation and sectarian violence, and every time another story of this troubled city unfolds on the TV screen, perfume is the last thing I usually think about. And isn’t it frivolous and unnecessary anyway? But then I remember a scented memento given to me by an Iraqi friend. “In our culture, we give a fragrant flower to sweeten the pain of saying goodbye,” she said. We were in New York then, and there were neither scented roses nor jasmine, so instead she gave me a small bottle of orange blossom water. Every time I use it in my cakes or tea, I think of Muna.

The tradition of sharing scents–sprinkling guests with perfume or giving them small scented gifts as they depart–has ancient roots, and with few modifications, these practices continue today. Even as Iraq has been undergoing dramatic upheavals, some things remain the same and provide a thread of continuity which becomes even more essential when nothing else is certain. When Muna describes the fragrances made by her relatives, she doesn’t just describe the sweetness of jasmine or the medicinal sharpness of saffron, she tells me about her mother and grandmother and other women who left an indelible mark on her.

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Reading French magazines never feels as indulgent as spending a lazy Sunday afternoon with a pile of American Marie Claires or Vogues. “It’s language practice,” I say to my husband, who gives me a look indicating that he’s not buying any of it. Little does he know that it’s also an interesting cultural study, because whatever the globalization adherents believe, France and USA remain distinctive, right down to their fragrance preferences. One example is the choice of perfumes that French magazines consider sexy.

“Parfums sexy” editorials were all over the magazines leading up to Valentine’s Day and now they’re resurfacing again in preparation for the summer holidays. I suppose that when you have 30 paid vacation days, why not use some of that time for seduction.

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Last summer I arrived in Brussels with a severely limited perfume collection. You know how sometimes perfume lovers ask themselves what five fragrances they would take to a desert island and then agonize over their choice? Well, that was me at this time last year. In the end, I packed Chanel No 19, Annick Goutal Néroli, decants of Serge Lutens Bois de Violette, Iris Silver Mist, Frédéric Malle L’Eau d’Hiver, and Carnal Flower. I had a small bag of samples I needed for work and reviewing, but I mostly kept myself happy with my little collection.

Wearing an edited set fragrances last summer was enjoyable. For one thing, good fragrances are beyond seasons, and it’s fun to play with seasonal associations. Don a crisp citrus cologne on a cold January morning or turn up the heat with spicy orientals on a languid summer evening. Many fragrances have specific connotations for me–oranges and cinnamon make me think of winter holidays, but there is nothing to stop me from creating my own Christmas in July.

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