Borneo 1834

The first time I wore Borneo 1834, I thought, “What’s the big deal?”

This was the middle of summer, and it stung my skin and smelled like rusty old man eating peanuts and wool trousers in the afternoon sun.

I tried it on a different, more temperate day, and it had more of the dried tobacco smell that I so very much adore, and my husband loved it. He said it smelled ambery. He’s a big fan of the amber.

Today is a perfectly crisp autumn day, so I put on my brown, lace-knit wool tights, paprika shoes, brown tweed skirt, and cantaloupe sweater. Autumn, autumn, autumn, topped off with the Borneo 1834, and the magic broke through.

The first blast was all bitter chocolate. Even now, a couple hours later, I’m smelling the bitter chocolate and market stalls where traders set out their spices and pipes and tanned leather and yards and yards of brightly dyed silks embroidered with intricate patterns and sewn-on jewels. The patchouli is a note I wouldn’t have guessed because it is very dry, like the leaves were picked and left out in the sun. Most of all, I love it. I love that I smell ancient today, wrapped in history. It makes me feel like I’m connected to something larger than me, yet secret. Like if those National Treasure movies were any good. Or maybe like the first round of Indiana Jones.