by Ebony Reynaud
Holidays are made of memories and to me, memories are made up of one thing: Scents. In fact, if I thought hard, I’m sure every holiday I had ever taken would have some significant smells associated with it. Aromas that jog the memory into vivid pictures each time the winds are high.
Take the classic blue tub of Nivea face cream, a small sniff and suddenly a lobster red Ebony is trying to counteract a careless sunblock application in Noosa as a 10 year old.
Photo by Vanessa Pike-Russell
Frangipani flowers teleport me to a balmy Tahiti (unfortunately the same pleasant memory cannot be triggered by seeing those car window stickers). Calamine lotion almost raises the chicken pox itch that held my brother and I captive whilst holidaying in paradise.
Smelling smoky bushfire air and I am collecting wood to starve off the frostbite in a chilly rural hamlet in France. And speaking of all that is French, have you ever smelt your way to a prized truffle? I have, but that’s a story for another day.
Sandalwood incense, fish sauce, open drains and tiger balm ensure Bangkok’s street fare seeps in deep…Durian fruit making its way to number 1 on my “nose-block” list.
Churros doused in cinnamon sugar, barbecued corn and dusty air floats me to summer nights at the Vallejo County Fair, where racing down a giant slide on a hessian sack leaves me bruised.
Warm crusty baguettes and La Dolce Vita perfume morphs me into my slightly dorky teenager self, touring New Caledonia with (very) limited French. I proudly sport an innovative (and useless) tan-thru one piece and drown my limbs in Reef coconut oil. What’s the slogan? Skin cells in trauma?
Are you catching on?
The Body Shop’s Moroccan Rose makes me think only of my sister. Victoria Secret’s flirty scent is my girlfriend Kristin. Fahrenheit is dear dad. Which brings me to jasmine and orange blossom, dragging me through the bittersweet promise of spring, yet another year without that great man.
The aroma of Lucerne hay and sweating horses unconsciously causes me to squeeze my knees together while my pony Rocky gallops madly. And creamed rice is my every Friday night from ages 10 – 15.
So can one make sense of these scents? It is my understanding that not all are blessed/afflicted with the same sensory sensitivity. In fact I believe I have inherited (mother is the “queen” of scents) my astute nose. I have secured a reputation for picking perfumes on passersby- a talent that I fear may only draw likeness to that of Parfume’s Jean-Baptiste Grenouille.
That said, I couldn’t help but feel some dread and sadness when I learnt of age wearying the senses. Do oldies experience a misery of monotony, living in scent mute worlds where lilac talc and imperial leather soap no longer register? And in my case, will the memories associated, fade with the smells?
Evaluating this possible and probable outcome should have me in a real stink. However today I feel like fighting. I will board a plane destined for an undiscovered world (or Italy in my case) and I will be sure to carry on a giant (30ml?) scent, one powerful and potent enough to sear the trip forever into my ageing mind. But first, Duty Free perfumes, please point me in the direction of the Poison (Dior, that is).
Author’s Bio: Ebony Reynaud lives by Sydney’s Bronte Beach and is a regular health and beauty writer for travel blogs.