Bouquets from Grasse

My mother chose Joy; mine was Billet Doux, which means “gallant note” or love-letter. I remember the square-cut glass, it resembled a bottle of Chanel 5. The simple white label, glued to the front, only added to the allure of the container. On the label, the name of the scent was simply typed in black ink.

That was a long time ago and Billet Doux was much too floral for me. But I remember the magic of standing at the center of the distillery, where rivers of aromatic water bearing exotic names, were decanted from large alembics. On the shelves, rows of soaps were stacked like scented bricks and on the tables were bowls, laden with fresh petals that diffused their heady perfumes. The space was fragrant, the aroma of the flowers drifted from the perfumery into the gardens.

Visiting the perfume museum in Grasse, the third most important perfume capital in the world, I had entered a new dimension — a laboratory of the senses, the catalog of which read like a pharmacopoeia that invoked aromatic dreams.