Les Exclusifs

I finally got my pick-6 Chanel sampler pack: Bois des Iles, Cuir de Russie, Bel Respiro, 31 Rue Cambon, Coromandel, and No. 22.

At first I could barely rouse myelf to take them out of the little bag. I mean, my recent set of Hermessence samples made me think that maybe I just don't like perfume that much. Ambre Narguile was okay, but as La Niebla pointed out, dried down to a smell like gas station bathroom air freshener. Osmanthe Yunnan was too peachy-pale for me, pretty but kind of meh. Vetiver Tonka made me gag (and smell again . . . and gag again . . . fascinating but ultimately gagworthy). And Diptyque's Philosykos, which was supposed to be the perfect iris-and-fig scent? Interesting, but ultimately reminded me of fancy aerosol hairspray. I have yet to find the iris/violet smell that I can really get behind. Maybe Guerlain Apres l'Ondee - for a bottle of which many bloggers would sacrifice their first-born? I'll order a sample, I sigh wearily, but it's probably going to be the same old story. My nose isn't sharp enough to detect luxury, so it's probably a waste of time hunting it down.

Or is it? On first sniff, 31 Rue Cambon took me to Another Place. An apartment in Paris fitted with marble countertops and antique writing desks rather than Ikea rugs and salvaged bookshelves; upon which rested expensive bouquets in cut-glass vases, rather than crumpled Pop-Tart wrappers and dirty underwear. I am telling you, 31 Rue Cambon turned me into a new woman, a wealthier, more awesome version of myself, kept young and beautiful by injections of pure, unadulterated luxury piped directly into my veins.

I get it! I finally get it about Chanel. Oh, Les Exclusifs, you will save me (or ruin me) yet.