Of scents and stories

I am not, in general, someone who loves perfume. I do not have a signature scent, I can count on my two hands the number of times I actually bought perfume for myself, and I somehow almost always forget to spritz on some before stepping out of the house and into the rest of my day. I was always the one who survived happily on baby cologne — Johnson’s, Angel’s Breath, Bien Etre (who remembers that one?), Gotas D’Oro, Tartine Et Chocolat, Nenuco and Bench Bubble Gum. Almost in that order through the years.

But very suddenly, some years back, perhaps when I hit my 30s, I developed a genuine liking for perfume. I do not know what brought it on but almost overnight, it began to appeal very much to me. Yes, the scent would be a deal maker, but the design and weight of the bottle, how it made me feel, what it was called, and the images its entirety conjured mattered so much more.

But then, isn’t something intangible like scent some kind of wonderful in that way? And come to think of it, maybe it is that. Maybe, just maybe, I like perfume because I just have to hold it in my hand, spray it, close my eyes and already I can dream. Or remember.

 For instance, right this very moment, as I write this, I remember one summer night in Lola Carmen’s home in Martinez Compound in Cebu. I was in college still, and we were all dressing up to go to Bai disco in Cebu Plaza Hotel (“we” meaning my sister Caren, our cousins Johanna, Tesa and Karo, and myself). Tesa — she who always did makeup (and most other things, really) — effortlessly drew wingtips on my eyes, leaving the rest of my face bare. No blush even. Just powder, wingtips, and a bold matte lip. I wore a black top, tucked into olive green linen pants, strappy sandals. My lip color was one called Navajo Brown — a brick-red shade that could make anyone look beautiful. I loved it so. But it was a one-time wonder, for I never found another tube like it ever again. I sprayed on Tribu from Benetton, a scent I ended up loving but never even knew existed until it was given to me as a present. Then we all scampered out like a herd of sheep, each having sprayed on a different scent and thus smelling like a garden of flowers (or fruits?), five warrior goddesses going into the night, a midnight curfew to keep. We had a grand time, dancing under those lights, at that time when people really danced and not just moved one or two body parts the way most are wont to do in this day and age. Then we ended up eating pochero in Abuhan, most everyone’s last stop then after a night out.

I want to find a bottle of Tribu again, if only to bring me back in time to that night, and so many other nights just like that through those years, when we were all young and carefree with deadlines in school as our biggest worry. Right now, I have a longing for Clinique Happy, which reminds me of sunny afternoons in the balcony of Lola Carmen’s home, where we would all gather together after lunch to watch Santa Barbara and The Bold and the Beautiful (I was hopelessly in love with Ridge Forrester) after which we would have to go to school for our afternoon classes.

 Come to think of it, it was just those two — Tribu and Happy, and a slew of baby colognes — that kept me going. That is, until my 30s when I first encountered Jo Malone’s Vetyver and Lime, Basil and Mandarin and Penhaligon’s Lavandula. Then Creed came along, with all their sexy bottles and Annick Goutal’s Petit Cherie, and they all smell so light and happy it is difficult to just choose and stick to one. At this point, I am just glad that, like lipstick, there is no need to be loyal to any one bottle or scent. I now guiltlessly open several different bottles all at once. What am I saving them for anyway? Every day, no matter what it holds, is special enough. 

So even when I am just sitting at home, it is not unusual for me to spray on Penhaligon’s Lavandula. The day, like today, could always use some lavender — my oatmeal is pretty in its cup, the book I am excited to read, Ruth Reichl’s My Kitchen Year, promises to be a good, and a stray cat stares skeptically at me from across the pool, as if wondering whether we are friends or not. (We can be, but I know she and her friends have been traumatized by our dogs and she probably suspects I will not be much of an ally.)

 Oh, and did I ever tell you about that one time when good friends of mine came back from Egypt, bottles of a mysterious-looking perfume oil as their prized find? The vendors had promised it would make a woman very attractive to a man. There was no brand, it simply said “Secret of the Desert” on the bottle, and whether it actually works or not, I do not know. I stopped writing this for a moment to take it down from the shelf where I keep my scents and paused to inhale it. It smells heavy, yes; a bit sultry, too; really concentrated, and my inexperienced nose can best describe it as flowery yet musky. I should pass it on to my girlfriends still in search of someone who needs their love. Meeting someone by way of perfume might even be more romantic than Tinder, don’t you think?

 On a related note, I received this gorgeous bottle of perfume from my fairy godmother the other day, named Dolce — a heavy bottle crowned with a beautiful red rose, a thin grosgrain ribbon in black around its neck. It reminds me of a very beautiful day, a very beautiful life.

I sprayed some on my wrists last night, before going to a dinner that found me relishing pork chops and white rice. I also learned some new things from my 15-year-old — how to do wingtips on the eyes, the rewards of squats, and the appeal of Jelly Bean Baby Cologne, which is her favorite Bench scent. “Everyone just goes for Bubble Gum, Mama, but Jelly Bean,” she says, adding a pause, and the twinkle in her eyes that she also gets when she is talking about her favorite burger, “Jelly Bean is special.” I can believe that.