Monthly Archives: January 2019

P E R F U ME AS R E V E NG E

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via P E R F U ME AS R E V E NG E

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January 31, 2019 · 11:15 pm

ROSES & LIQUOR…… NIN SHAR by JUL ET MAD (20I5)

via ROSES & LIQUOR…… NIN SHAR by JUL ET MAD (20I5)

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January 29, 2019 · 10:29 pm

the first time I ever smelled violets

 

 

 

 

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The first first time I ever smelled violets was yesterday.

 

 

It amazes me somewhat to write that sentence, since I know the smell of violets like I know the colour of my eyes, but that smell has only ever been in perfume or in Parma candies : a chemical appropriation thereof. For some reason I have never before, in this lifetime, come into contact with the breathing, fragrant flowers themselves.

 

 

Yesterday, walking in the cold, in the pleasant but mundane town of Fujisawa where I mostly work ( life has been quite dreary since coming back from Cambodia : it is as if I am shellshocked by reality and the drop in temperature and have had to try in vain to tame my recalcitrant, wayward inner spirit which just wants to live in dreams: :  a lot of turbulent and discordant stress of late being the result ) –  I did a double take when walking past one of the standard florists as my sight alighted on some pots with the label ‘nioisumire’; or fragrant violets ( the ones that live in the woodlands near our house have no smell : these flowers are doubled in petal, more bunched up, I think Parma)……..and as I leaned in, like Snow White, I could smell violets – just as I always imagined the smell to be : sweet, pretty, velveted, but with green edges and a breath of soil – and I had to buy them.

 

 

 

During my lessons last night – fraught; perspirated; overcompensating for my lack of enthusiasm with frenetic ‘energy’, while the students were writing, I came down for a few minutes to the teachers’ room. And, when no one was looking, I plunged my face into the paper-wrapped potted plant. The smell of the nestled, living flowers hidden within the paper was nothing less than thrilling : as if all the history of violets in literature, and perfume, were condensing in one true moment and I was smelling them in their raw and pristine state: delicate; beautiful ;  emotional.

 

 

 

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THE CRUEL DESECRATION OF YARDLEY ENGLISH LAVENDER (1913)

The Black Narcissus

 

 

 

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Like any other perfume lover, the receiving of bottles of scent for Christmas, or a birthday, or any other special occasion, is reason for excitement. My in-laws are from Norfolk, home of the world’s finest lavender (I prefer it to the French or the Bulgarian, this very English, camphoraceous lavender with just the right balance of purpleness, herbs and fruit) and they generously brought over a bottle of Yardley English Lavender in my Christmas package when they came over in December. I was of course delighted to receive it, particularly as I totally associate where Duncan is from with the scent of this hallowed, ancient plant.  Daphne will always send me sachets of dried lavender flowers from her garden, which I love to put under my pillow, and we even once went on an fascinating lavender tour all together somewhere out in…

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DAVID BOWIE: : : : : : TRUE ARTIST

 

can it really have been three years ?

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DAVID BOWIE: : : : : : TRUE ARTIST

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January 11, 2019 · 8:01 am

GENTLE FLUIDITY by MAISON FRANCIS KURKDIJIAN (2019)

 

 

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On Thursday night we went to a Vietnamese dance and acrobatics show at the Opera House Saigon. Climbing the red carpet behind behind a European couple, I caught their joint sillage. It was exactly like all the duty free perfumes I had lacklusterly sampled at the various airports to and from; the slab of grey blue woody ‘amber’ for him; pink:orange, unthinking ‘floral’ vanilla for her.

 

 

While not overtly unpleasant, what struck me the most about their fused scent trail was the absolute absence of nuance or complexity. There was no sense of the perfume beckoning you to find out more; nothing elusive, mysterious, sensuous or daring. Sexual, perhaps, in a hammer and tongs kind of way. But nothing that made you wonder, feel captivated, or aesthetically switched on. With their block-like opacity without light, everything you needed to know was there in an extraordinarily simplistic manner: :

 

 

 

 

I am man. And I am woman.

 

 

 

 

The new duo of fragrances by Maison FK, both called Gentle Fluidity ( geddit?) aims to get past this dichotomy of his and her by presenting two different perfumes based on exactly the same 49 ingredients, but blended in different proportions. By not spelling out for you which is ‘for men’ and which is ‘for women’, you yourself make the choice.  Prominent notes include nutmeg, coriander, musk, juniper berries, ‘amber woods’ and vanilla (spotlighted more obviously in the more feminine scent) ; you are presumably supposed to gravitate towards whichever of the two (in actual fact quite contrasting perfumes) you feel more ‘comfortable’ with.

 

 

 

 

Although Francis Kurkdijian is a brilliant perfumer, with quite a few scents in the range I find impressive (though don’t actually wear), I have to say that for me, the concept and execution of these two new fragrances is a dud. Firstly, there is nothing remotely ‘gentle’ about either of them. The men’s one (because let’s be honest, these perfumes are just as strictly gendered as the ones that I smelled on the theatre staircase, they just aren’t physically labelled as such ) is abrasive and very forthright, with the juniper note at the front, and a familiar, Sauvage-ish  base (absolutely the order of the day: I noticed that Hermès had gone this route with their ‘vetiver’ remix of Terre D’Hermes, as had Kenzo in variants of their classic Pour Homme- everyone is getting in on the ‘liquid testosterone’ act).

 

 

 

 

The women’s one is equally unadventurous: the usual, thick and oversweetened woody vanilla. I didn’t try either of the sample bottles I received on my own skin ( because I  couldn’t bear to: if there is a real, gentle, or gender, fluidity when it comes to perfumes I already have it and I love the individualistic ambiguity that is the result).

 

 

 

Having said that, one thing I have realized recently is that in perfume criticism you can’t fully know what you are talking about until you have smelled the fragrance on different people and in real life situations. You make your pronouncements and then later have to (somewhat) change your tune. When we were checking in at Vietnam Airlines, as the woman at the counter walked past us to return to her post she left a delicious, modern vanilla with delicately fruited overtones behind her: as she checked our passports and issued our tickets, though slightly embarrassing, I was enjoying smelling her scented aura so much I felt compelled to ask her what she was wearing. ‘Gabrielle,  by Chanel’ she replied, a perfume I savaged upon its release for I am sure quite valid reasons but which, in an everyday encounter, smelled highly pleasant indeed.

 

 

 

Another of those ‘vanilla’ ( because is there anything else now for the modern woman, in truth ?) perfumes that I had to ask about was worn by a gorgeous singer in a club we went to: again, it was a perfume I had dismissed as not worth the time of day – Black Opium by Yves Saint Laurent – but on her it was  a cafe au lait type affair that she smelled really  lovely in. Neither of these perfumes smelled INTERESTING or alluring as such though, if you know what I mean – just cute; embraceable.

 

 

 

Which I cannot do to the two new fragrances by FK. Yes, as the man is a technical wizard, I don’t doubt ( well I do, actually) that both of the perfumes will reveal more as they meld with different skins – presumably, some people, uncowed by the lack of gender specification, will ‘dare’ to try the scent more akin to their real nature and some curious results may occur in the wearing, but for me, this release is ultimately a cynical, and unadventurous attempt to jump on the ‘gender’ wagon ; in giving us merely his n hers but just erasing the name, this isn’t gender fluidity. Gender fluidity to me means just being free to do whatever you want unshackled by predecided cultural cliche. Something that is most definitely not the case with these two, very unfluid and ‘revolutionary’ new fragrances.

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HOTEL ANISE, PHNOM PENH

 

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We arrived in Phnom Penh dazed and overwhelmed from Saigon. Ultimately, much as we had enjoyed many aspects of that surging, dynamic, and incendiary city, there were times – caught in the heavy pollution of a humid, overcast afternoon, motorbikes roaring constantly as people blared into mobile phones; the sheer frenzy and libido of the place – that we felt we could hardly take any more. There are quieter areas, and beauty in a variety of ways, but when we left The Cinnamon Hotel we were ready.

 

 

 

 

 

D and I are quite weird travellers in a number of ways. I don’t know about you, or how you choose your own destinations, but I imagine that the majority of people go somewhere they have long wanted to visit, or else a place that has been talked about recently, and then they busily go about planning and  organizing their itineraries in all the minutiae of hotels, things to do; checking each thing on tripadvisor, and then arriving with the holiday all set in place.

 

 

 

Perhaps rashly, because we want everything to be fresh and new; as stimulating as possible on all levels, we choose where to go almost randomly, anti-intuitively ( I had never wanted to go to Cambodia especially), and then just book our hotels. Seeing everything in advance in photos ruins the pleasure of a place unveiled, unfurling before your eyes, so we just arrive and then take it from there.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Phnom Penh is a place name you cannot disassociate from the genocide of two million Cambodians under the Khmer Rouge (perhaps the reason why I had never really wanted to go there: we ‘did’ Nagasaki many moons ago and were very shaken, as you should be, by the Atomic Bomb museum; I feel no need, important and ‘interesting’ as it was, to now go to Hiroshima as well – I just felt too many ghosts there – the air was leaden and heavy and oppressive, a feeling that lifted the second we crossed the water to Kumamoto but I digress): growing up in England, the image of Cambodia in the seventies and eighties was nothing but misery.

 

 

 

Upon arriving, everything felt wider, mellower, if still infested with motorbikes, even if not quite as densely; the architecture (decaying French colonial, Buddhist) appealing, the roads still noisy, which, as we were finally dropped off at our hotel, The Hotel Anise, I realized was probably going to be a problem – inheriting the neurosis directly from my mother, who gets very agitated in hotels if there is even the slightest noise – my father usually having to use his wily ways to convince the staff to move them, often several times- the hotel was overbooked and we were led to the annex, a separate building across the street with five flights of stairs (not ideal for my imperfect pins); a simple room, but with our own private balcony, that looked out over a thronging party at a famous Khmer restaurant across the street; karaoke floating up from unseen places; construction work going on…….I will admit that I was tense as hell at first, to the D’s understandable irritation. We had paid for the room though and couldn’t afford to go anywhere else, and I had earplugs with me, and after a delicious meal at the hotel restaurant with Angkor beers, I started to melt more into my surroundings.

 

 

 

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We were not very adventurous for the first day, just too tired from the blowouts in Ho Chi Minh, and didn’t venture much further than our hotel. Just down the street was a golden temple, so serene, with cats and mango trees and people fanning themselves in shady nooks, so slow. Catching a tuk-tuk to one of the lesser known markets, where the local people go rather than tourists, we realized we definitely were tourists because it was just too cramped, suffocating and claustrophobic inside, with stall owners sprawled among heaps of clothing and other goods in their own spaces that had no respite from the heat: D couldn’t take it, and was feeling a bit hot and bothered, so we randomly went to a roadside restaurant and ordered sour fish soup; very anisic, herbal, fresh, unlike anything I have ever had before, but that was it for the day. We felt instead like just resting and reading in our city garret, whose atmosphere I was starting to appreciate: somehow, the ambient noise was just that – ambient; I felt like a character in Rear Window able to observe the goings on of tenement dwellers and the people in the street, there was a life to it, but also a sleepiness. We could tell that the city was one we were going to rather like.

 

 

 

 

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‘Be careful with cruel dogs’.

 

 

 

 

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The next morning we decided to do a tour of the city by tuk-tuk to get our bearings. I don’t really being guided or explained to: I prefer to just be taken to the key destinations and see what I might come back to later; having been conned by a couple of taxi-drivers in Ho Chi Minh we decided to get a more reputable one from the omnipresent Tripadvisor, which turned out to be a good move: Wuthi was fun but unobtrusive, and he took us to one of the key temples in Phnom Penh, where we lost track of time until he came looking for us; Wat Promh, another Buddhist tower in the centre of the city near trees loaded with hanging bats (fascinating), and down the river near the Royal Palace. Asking us if we wanted to go The Killing Fields, we instinctively said no.

 

 

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Returning to the hotel after a day in the hot sun warming to our environment, he asked us out of the blue if we would like to go to kickboxing. We had never considered doing this before – we had been planning to go to a bar called Heart Of Darkness – but thought why not: I actually really like kung fu films and let’s be honest, the idea of the boxers themselves wasn’t exactly unattractive either. We said yes. I will pick you up in three hours then, from the hotel.

 

 

 

 

 

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I love new and unexpected experiences, and it was exciting heading out to a stadium just outside the city centre on a Friday night in the full, heated hubbub of Pnom Penh. It was a bumpy ride, but I was in going out mode: Unum Opus 1144 for the first time, and it felt correct, if absurd; extravagant amber richness for a sporting event, but I was in the right mood for it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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We arrived, and had seats ringside, behind where the boxers sat prior to and after their bouts (matches? rounds? episodes? I know nothing about it): it was  a sensory delight; musicians in sombreros would play traditional Khmer music on drums and some kind of oboe – which sounded like the sinuous music that a snake charmer would use to coax a cobra (the national animal, incidentally – there are stone, onyx or gold cobras wherever you go) from its box. The lithe boxers would initially step dance along with the music, having performed some form of Buddhist prayer in the ring, draped in flowers, and would then gradually begin to fight and kick their way through each round; punctured by loud, exhilarating Khmer hip hop pounding through an excellent sound system that got the atmosphere and the crowd really heated up. Initially, I was mesmerized by the aesthetics of the event. The music, the beauty of the boxers and their smell- the scent of sweat commingled with the jasmine garlands they wore, often left on the seat right in front of me; mixed with my own perfume and the changing smells in the air around me I was intoxicated, if uninvolved with the events on the ‘stage’, as I couldnt’ really understand it. You had an idea of who was winning – most of the matches were between a Cambodian and a Thai, but I couldn’t quite focus my eyes on the details of what the kickboxers were actually doing. After a while, the rousing pull of the vanquisher raising his gloved fists aloft to the increasingly raucous reactions of the crowd became indomitable and I was genuinely swept up in the sport itself, becoming more attuned to technique and impressed by the athleticism and strength.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

By the end, the sheer percussive din of it all left us pummelled as soft-shelled crabs, and there was no way we were going to be going to any bar. The only possibility was bed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The next day, there was no escaping the fact that we would have to go to the Genocide Museum. A disaster that killed up to a quarter of the population, the Khmer Rouge’s take over of the country in order to build an ‘agrarian utopia’ that resulted in the pointless annihilation of city people, Buddhists (temples smashed, monks executed), all ethic minorities, intellectuals, government officials, anyone who seemed to stand in the way of the agricultural slavery the regime thought was the answer to the country’s problems.  I hadn’t realized, either, that this fundamentally  terrorist organization also essentially came into being as a reaction against U.S interference in the country and the bombing from Vietnam that spread to Laos and Cambodia – actions that caused many deaths and huge wells of resentment but which have basically been hushed up (at least for those, like me, quite ignorant in world history: I was never good at it at school nor particularly interested which is precisely why I need to go to such places). The parallels with organizations like ISIS, though, cannot be ignored. And the cruelty, barbarity, and horrifying violence enacted in the name of ideology, are also very similar.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Instinctively, neither of us took any photos at S121, a former school turned torture centre where 16,000 people were ‘processed’, although many more nonchalant and casual daytrippers were, some sauntering through the rooms where people were decimated just snapping away……To me it seemed disrespectful and insensitive to the dead, but this was the thing: how do you react in such a place? To cry, as you listen to your audio guide and realize what happened and that you are in the place where it happened, feels very self-indulgent (this is not all about you!), but then again, how can you not? 

 

 

 

 

 

The ‘tour’, which felt interminable, began in a courtyard filled with frangipani trees, in full bloom, beautifully fragrant, and my first thought was stupidly that I wondered whether these flowers had given any solace to the prisoners at all. But I quickly realized that all would have been too desensitized and numb and in acute pain and suffering to notice anything. The guide – a Cambodian man who took you through everything in a dignified, unsensationalistic manner, gentle (as the people seem to be in Cambodia ) asked you to sit down on a bench near the fourteen white gravestones that contained the remains of the unidentifiable last victims of the Khmer Rouge at that site before the liberation by the Vietnamese army and Cambodian insurgents. He talked of the symbolism of frangipani trees, sacred in Buddhist culture because they represent immortality as they will flower, even if uprooted, and as I found myself immediately in tears I saw that flowers from the trees, pink and yellow, were slowly falling down around me onto the grass. The pathos of this was poetic but unbearable, particularly when we were asked to go into Building A, which for me was by far the worst and most difficult of the four buildings that constituted the old school that had been turned into a place of unimaginable horror.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In each room was a bed, exactly as the soldiers found it, with iron shackles that kept each poor victim chained up, tortured in inconceivable ways, with the very stains that were there still on the floors, and a sepia photograph of each person on the wall, so that you were actually in the place where they died and could see what they looked like. Sometimes, the faces were covered with a paper strip, probably because it would have just been too horrific to absorb, but as it was, I found it profoundly upsetting and my heart ached that these people, imprisoned for no reason, should have had to go through so much unbearable suffering. Each room seemed to be worse than the last, until finally we were out in the courtyard, not looking at each other, but staring downwards, trying not to burst into tears (other people walked about also with their headphones, dealing with it all in their own way, even if some were too glib and carefree for my own liking: I found it incomprehensible.) Most, though, were lost in their own thoughts and processing the information and reality of what happened – this was just one of many such places across the country; I also didn’t quite know how to proceed. Through room after room and story after story of sickening cruelty; all the photographs, not only of the victims, staring out into the camera, but also the perpetrators, often young vulnerable children who were coerced into joining the organization but who you could tell had been completely dehumanized by the experience; the relating of individual stories of torture…….after a while it all became so overwhelming that I didn’t think I could take any more. The final exhibit, with skulls stacked up as evidence (like the Holocaust, naturally there are deniers, probably why the museum did not forbid photography – this needs to be documented and disseminated the world over so it is not forgotten) was almost intolerable to me, especially with the insensitive snapping them as part of their holiday albums……………..escaping outside to the grass I listened to a smot, or Cambodian song for the dead, and turning my head to avoid anyone seeing, just let the tears flow uncontrollably.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Leaving, we knew the only thing we could do was go back to the hotel. ‘You want to go to the Killing Fields?’ says the driver, but there was no way: this was enough. I am sure that the experience just reinforces the horror even further, but unless it was silent, there were no people, and I were with a Cambodian person who could lead me through it from personal experience (everyone is affected here: Wuthi had both sets of grandparents murdered) it would make no sense, and even then it would just be too ghastly and ghoulish for me to ‘enjoy’ (some tourist websites talk of the fact that when it rains, ‘you can see skulls and other bone matter rising up from the grass!’ as though this were something I would want to see but no way: everything I needed to know I saw at S121 and unfortunately now it is in my head and I can’t ever rid myself of it.) Those rooms are still coming back to me at night, particularly as we are both reading the books by Loung Ung, First They Killed My Father and Lucky Child – last night I turned off the lights and felt like I was having a minor panic attack, so I am not sure if this is the right time to read them. Immersing ourselves in the reality of this history is important (the hotel also had copies of documentaries and films – rather than the real thing, we watched the 1984 film The Killing Fields instead) but for the porous among us it can be too affecting. A duty though. I can’t imagine what the Khmer Rouge Victims went through.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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What to do in the evening after a daytime trip to the genocide museum?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After a few hours resting we decided to go out to the Blue Chilli, a famed drag show night – Phnom Penh is relaxed about such things, it feels subtly permissive, as any country would be after being oppressed so horrendously in the past – plus there is a certain live and let live quality about Buddhist countries, I have found; you make your own karma, the tenets on one temple wall we saw saying do no evil, cultivate good, and purify your mind, a ‘doctrine’ that I think the world could do with adhering a lot more to be honest, but anyway, I am talking about a gay bar, which was fun – the queens were pretty and hilarious, there was a very mixed crowd, and the atmosphere was friendly and upbeat.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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D was dancing around with strangers, where I felt subdued: even with the music and the alcohol I couldn’t shake off the day’s horrors, and there was one man, a Cambodian, among the throng, who stood out from the crowd in his thinness and particular features, and who I had seen, I am sure, among the faces, the hundreds and thousands of faces on display at the killing centre.

 

 

 

 

 

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He looked very similar; the bone structure and eyes, a direct link, even in the midst of the festiveness all around me, that was a direct reminder that all the modern culture is a palimpsest over the traumas of the past. It has only been 25 years since democracy was restored; the people have had to move on and build a new society (a very appealing one, I must say – we both felt strangely at home there for some reason), but which most definitely is still haunted, on a daily basis, by the sheer evil of the detestable Khmer Rouge and their repugnantly misguided, sadistic, regime.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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I have never been particularly history-minded, as I said earlier. The ins and outs of the civil war and the longstanding mutual animosity between Cambodia and Vietnam are not something I can plunge into with too much detail: in truth, I was more interested in how the people now are moving on and overcoming their collective post-traumatic stress; what methods they have for reasserting calmness and sanity in their lives, and I came across a very interesting article by a woman from Denmark who wrote a thesis on that very subject, spending years, with an interpreter, interviewing victims of the Khmer Rouge on their coping strategies, all of which are very culturally specific ( a need to maintain social contact with the dead, for one, to appease the spirits on a regular basis (S121 has been regularly purified with ritual, to try to give the souls of the dead peace there); discussions with monks and nuns along with meditation, which seems to be the most effective way of quietening the mind, for most people; groups that meet and discuss their lost ones, and so on). This did very much put into focus the importance of Buddhism in the daily lives of Cambodians now (95% are apparently Buddhist); showing that despite the atrocities and the attempts to destroy spirituality, it has naturally sprung up as a way for people to cope.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Of course, the main attraction in Cambodia is Angkor Wat, one of the Seven Wonders Of The World, and one of the world’s most visited tourist sites (as the biggest religious complex anywhere). It might seem obvious that we should have gone there  – I know anyone who has been to that apparently awe-inspiring place will think we are mad  not to have made the trip, but after a while we decided that we couldn’t face the day there and day back it would have taken, nor the hordes of people in shorts and t-shirts waiting for the ultimate camera angle; our nerves jangled at the mere thought of it. Also, we were enjoying Phnom Penh so much – it is always great, I think, to just sink into a city to the point of boredom, almost, as then it feels more like reality than mere spectating. Sitting on our balcony reading or drinking beer, or else just going for a wander in a cafe (on the main avenue where the statue of the king and the monument to independence is, I had the most beautiful herb tea, made with fresh mint, cinnamon, and anise, which after steeping became the most perfect melange of the three notes; the taste was mesmerizing).

 

 

 

 

 

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Instead of the trip to Angkor, which we have deferred to another time as I think we will want to go back there, we asked Wuthi to take us to a miniature temple site out of town (on the way to which D ate the dreaded fried frog), where there were no people except the people living within the temple grounds; as ancient as Angkor, even if on a far less impressive scale. Still, it was peaceful and very atmospheric. Even more, I liked the temple nearby which had no one except us and some families and chickens who lived within its precincts. The sun was blazing, and scented, tropical flowers were everywhere, ones I didn’t know the name of but whose perfume and appearance I adored. After a while, I decided to go off by myself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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D was overheating, but I felt fantastically alive and undisturbed, just wandering around in the intense sunlight taking pictures, walking down by the river with the strange statues; seeing white buffalo sleeping in the meadow beyond. I realized that – and I know this might sound ridiculous – but sometimes, you can access your younger self, the essential core of your nature. I felt twenty again, as I did when I used to live in Rome and go off for the day exploring ruins, walking down the Appian Way, alone but content. Sometimes, in just dousing yourself in another place, absorbing its atmospheres and realities, you forget about yourself for a while; it almost becomes like shedding skin, like a snake, until you access the untouched being within.

 

 

 

 

 

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Filed under CAMBODIAN TRAVELOGUE, Flowers, this is not a perfume review