A Friendship That Makes Scents
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As students trickle in, I'm amused by our eclectic group, which includes Germaine, a chemical engineer from Amsterdam, and Johari, an Indian businessman who moved to Singapore to work at his family's fragrance company. Soon everyone is joking about our mini United Nations Perfume Creation Committee.
The laughter quickly quiets when our instructor, Laurence Fauvel, walks in. She's more science teacher than style maven, dressed in khakis and a button-down shirt. And she's not one to mince words, immediately launching into what we'll learn at our "olfactory boot camp." Nowadays, Laurence explains, some fragrances are made by chemists who create molecules that mimic the smell of natural (and often more expensive) raw materials. We, however, will be studying the real thing—the floral, woody, and citrus ingredients that have formed the basis of perfume for centuries. Each morning, we'll learn to identify, by smell alone, a different set of raw materials, ranging from the familiar (lavender and lemon) to the bizarre (tonka-bean resin and opopanax). By the end of the week, each of us will be able to blend a basic scent.
"It is artistic, not intellectual," Laurence says. "When you smell, you should ask yourself: Is it warm? Powdery?" She pulls a glass vial from a box, counts out a scent strip per student, and then dips each one into the vial before passing them around.
For reasons she never explains, we must sniff raw materials in batches of five. She hands out strips dipped in cedar essence next, waving one under her nose. "It is woody and dry," she says.
"It smells like hamster shavings," Kathy blurts out.
Yalda, who works for a nonprofit in New York, laughs, but Laurence looks at us blankly.
"In the U.S., we keep rodents for pets, and we put wood chips at the bottom of their cages," I explain.
"Ahhh," Laurence says politely, clearly confused.
Kathy fans a strip dunked in juniper under her nose. "This reminds me of moonshine," she announces. Then, glancing at Laurence, she says, "You know, homemade American booze."
"It smells like gin," Johari clarifies.
"Gin and tonic," says someone else, and the entire room breaks out in laughter.
Kathy has always had this effect on people, drawing them together through sheer silliness. Between our excitement about visiting France and being back in class together, we've not only rekindled our bond, but we've rediscovered our younger selves in that younger friendship we once shared.
"It's the return of the Kathy and Karen Show," I say when we break for a two-hour lunch at Campanile, a restaurant in the nearby village of Châteauneuf.
Kathy throws an arm around my shoulder. "Remember how we used to force new boyfriends to go on double dates with us, and if they didn't run away screaming, they were promoted to the rank of possible keeper?" she asks.
Of course I remember. The men we wound up marrying both passed that test.
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