Essay: Woman in the Parfumerie

On the poignancy of scent

For this month’s edition of Woman in the World, I took myself to a parfumerie in Portland called Fumerie. I’m spending the month of June in California, and my friend gave me the rather brilliant idea of getting a signature scent to christen the trip with. The idea is to wear the perfume only in California, and then any time I want to remember, I can just uncork the bottle. 

I recently discovered that you can smell emotions—fear, happiness, shame. Perhaps, this explains why certain rooms wreak of loneliness or why I could always smell sadness on my ex-boyfriend’s coat.

At Fumerie, the perfumist asks for three adjectives to describe the smell I’m searching for. Any three words will do, he says, we’re into subjectivity around here. 

I think of California—the sequoias and ocean, sea lions, hawkweed, and the ever-looming grief.

But out loud I only say: Coastal, salt, redwoods.  

He nods solemnly as if he’s listening to my symptoms. It’s intimate—like the time a doctor traced the tiny bones in my wrists when I described where it hurt. 

Now, he’s lining up gorgeous bottles in front of me, spritzing each fragrance delicately on slivers of paper and watching me steadily as I sniff. While I sample, he tells me that couples often buy a signature fragrance for their wedding day and then wear it every anniversary after to remember. And I think I must be trying to commemorate something too—an anniversary yet to be defined. 

We begin from left to right. Each selection is from a local fragrance line called Imaginary Authors—now my current obsession.

The first selection, romantically called Language of Glaciers, markets itself as a “fragrance for introverts” with notes of white pine, lilac, virgin snowfall. To me, it smells like frozen lakes, winter road trips, and small-town waitresses who serve you hot cups of coffee and call you honeycakes.

The next is Sundrunk with notes of neroli and rhubarb. This one smells like sunscreen, salt, and freckles. Like bringing home oysters, three at a time, shucking them in the early evening and then washing them down with a bell jar of white wine. 

I finally settle on the third—Falling into the Sea—with notes of citrus, lychee, and warm sand. This one smells like LA beaches. Old typewriters, just-ripe lemons, and a man’s sweat. I want to sip it as a cocktail at an outdoor cafe. The perfumist packages the bottle up like expensive chocolates and slides it across the bar. 

As a teen, I really loved the stinky stuff from Bath and Body Works. Moonlight Path was a personal favorite. Nothing said fourteen and puberty like jasmine and soft musk. Now, when I catch a whiff of Moonlit Path at the mall, I realize it smells nothing like jasmine. Instead, it reeks of third-cultureness, high school, and the Backstreet Boys. Of never quite feeling you fit, no matter how hard you try.

I always loved perfume but was nervous to wear it. It felt ostentatious somehow—to announce oneself without speaking. When I was young, my father disapproved of us wearing fragrance. He had a sensitive nose and fussed at us if he smelled it on those dreaded drives to church in the family van. These days, I feel like dousing myself in it. Maybe just to have a scent to follow in the dark.

They say lost dogs follow overlapping circles of scent to grow closer to home. I think of my current home’s overlapping scent circles: the fur on my cat’s belly, fireplace soot, breakfast potatoes, the perfumed edge of my dead grandmother’s kerchiefs tucked inside the top drawer. The smell of the lover in Portland who wants to keep loving me even though I’ve gone to California for half the summer, nose to the ground, sniffing out some other home.

I consider my life as fragrance and wonder what it would be called. What notes would play if you rubbed the last 38 years rubbed between two wrists? Oregon roses, I suppose. Cicadas in Ohio summer, my mother’s mocha pie, the smoke of lightning on dry ground, brine, old ink, split plums, and loneliness. The way the pavement smells in the morning, still wet from last night’s rain. 

Before I leave the shop, the perfumist asks if I want to smell a final fragrance just for kicks. It’s his favorite. He slides Nuit de Bakélite in front of me. It smells like all the lovers I haven’t met yet. Of the dream you forget right as you wake. Of childhood and starlight, new socks, and the last time you felt lucky. It smells like new leather, crushed tulips, and being held. So familiar, I can’t bear it—I immediately tear up. He nods: I know—it’s the best one.

Writing prompt:

Imagine the scent notes of your life—you can be poetic or literal. Consider the scent ingredient of your home, aura, or environment. Are you honeysuckle and courage? Copper, plums, and desert sage? What do you stink of?

Drop a description in the comments. I would absolutely love to know.

---

What’s new:

Traumedy Workshop w/ Elissa Bassist

Elissa Bassist

is an award-deserving author, humor writer, teacher, speaker, and editor of Funny Women on The Rumpus.

Workshop description:

People listen to a joke when they may ignore a sob story, so we’ll break down how to turn a sad diary entry into publishable writing—because if you can’t say something straight (if it’s too preachy, saccharine, confessional, or harrowing), then say it slant. Dark topics are hard to read about and harder to write about, but there are many ways to pull it off, all of which we’ll discuss. Our ultimate goal in writing “traumedy” will be to make readers laugh while PUNCHING THEM IN THE HEART. Happy endings will not be accepted.

Very limited number of outside tickets available.

Sustenance Writing Community Waitlist

My writing community Sustenance is currently capped at 200 members. However, we have a few spots that open every month. Through monthly guest speakers, themed challenges, author Q+A’s, Office Hours, and wild community support, Sustenance helps writers and essayists find consistency and inspiration.

My print shop is back!

I have a few selected prints and posters back up in my shop! Back for a limited time. xx