Peace, Love, and Patchouli; or, How I Came to Love the Patch Without Really Trying

Where were you in the Summer of Love?

Where ARE you in the Summer of Patchouli Love?

Me:

Learning how to read.  (My mother reports my first word was B-A-R.  Which says more about the nightly route we took to pick up my father from work than my adult habits.  I think.)

Right here being a Patch Test Bunny.

Let the wild association ride begin.

First of all, you will recall that I have evolved in my relationship with bunnies in a manner not hospitable to things furry and occasionally named Harvey.  (To wit, I "went McGregor," as detailed here.)  So as cute and cuddly as that long eared creature in the lower right hand corner of the lovely logo is, I am perhaps better represented as a bunny with quills.  Wait a minute...if *I* am the bunny...shoot! I need to go McGregor on myself!!

Which, as it so happens, is just the metaphor for what my greatest fear involving patchouli involves.  I would not, you see, describe myself as a patchouli fan.  It would be on my Do Not Go There list.  Of course, vetiver used to be on the same list.  Then I found two perfumes that opened the door for me (Vetiver Dance and Vetiver Racinettes), and once the door was ajar, other vetiver scents found a way to happily enter my awareness.

So, when I was invited to join the bunnies in the patch(ouli), I accepted.  Because I knew that evolution happens.  Plus, despite the still strong memory of my first introduction to patchouli (a friend's older sibling saying it smelled really cool, PLUS it had the benefit of covering over other, non-parent sanctioned smells), I had already pushed the patchouli door open a bit thanks to Chanel's Coromandel.  Difficult, prickly, fascinating, siren-calling, multiple-wearing inducing, full of facets, eventually and quite precipitously smooth as a multi-varnished and buffed piece of warm wood, Coromandel had already taught me I could enjoy patchouli, in the right setting.

Therefore, I said yes.  And waited for thirteen interpretations, thirteen settings, thirteen couchings, thirteen portraits of patchouli.

Thus began my personal patchouli dismantling.

Each of the lovely little roll on samples you see there came individually wrapped, labeled only by number.  (The numbers, btw, skipped #9, so as to avoid 6 / 9 confusion, which I loved.)  Rather than unwrapping them all, and then selecting by juice, I simply reached in blindly, and picked one at a time.  Unwrap, roll apply, sniff, note, huff, note, wait, huff, note, repeat.

Day One.  Numbers 2, 10, 5, 1, 6, and 11, in that order.  Rare is the day when I will sample so many scents at once.  But fate impelled me, and my sniffer cycle was on my side.  I knew I was in a good place for multiple huffings, and with another eight scents to go, the combination of bare arm weather + not headache triggerable + deadline pressure pushed me to go forward.  And so I did.

I returned to former standards and practices, cracking open a blank journal and using the primitive self-drawn diagram + notes method that made an appearance here --gadzooks! time flies-- almost three years ago.  Check it, dude.  Participating in a project that evoked impressions of the free flowing summer of love forced me to get my [one of George Carlin's seven words] together again.  Who knew?  Wild, man.

Thus I proceeded through Days Two and Three of Round One, with five new scents on the second day, two new on the third.  Plus, I re-applied #13 (from day two) and #11 (from day one) later on in day two, because of a sub-category thing I was developing which I shall speak more of later.

Such was methodology.  Now, some context.  

***

copyright Robert Altman (the photographer, not the director)

This here is the summer of love in my mind.

Well, that, and:  Let The Sunshine.  Detroit riots.  People joining hands and liking the world to sing.  Unbelievable pain.  Nearly unfathomable joy.  

The summer of love, 1967, is a soft-focus at the edges concept, a philosophy that carried through an era which most people suggest didn't stop until 1973.  Which is when I got a pair of red white and blue bell bottomed hip hugger jeans which were SO cool and made me feel just like the groovy teenage girls who lived down the block.  I wasn't, but it was how I felt.

As I have assembled that era and assimilated it into my life -- and I did, for though I wasn't fully cognizant when it happened, I was most essentially a child of it, in that I was raised in and through it.  I can't fathom an attitude other than equality, I smile when I see long hair, I know what a certain waft across a concert crowd or over my backyard fence is, I know the difference between the implications of that waft coming from the Vietnam vet living next door and the teenager at a Phish concert and the well coiffed older woman suddenly letting it all hang out at a Nora Jones performance.  

The Summer of Love can be forever immediate and young in my mind, and yet never attached to any particular something or someone, because it is not specifically attached to me, but it is in me.

So patchouli is/was the head shops, and kind of fun crazy but a little scary friends stopping by to chat with parents or friends of older siblings.  Patchouli is/was the smell of a beautiful older sister, who was so smart, and so cool, and who left and was never heard from again.  Patchouli is the smell of a nearly foul oil sold in the kiosk of a shopping mall on the decline.  Patchouli is a plant.  Patchouli is the smell inside two kinds of VW's, a wildly painted van and a love bug.  Patchouli is the smell of a smooth luxury perfume. 

Patchouli, you might think, is a hot mess in my mind.  But no; patchouli is a patchwork of impressions and styles and eras.  Which turns out is/was just the right background for approaching the thirteen liquids in the box, and being ready to meet their portraits of patch.

I opened my mind.  I tuned in, but I didn't drop out.  

I smellwatched patchouli that made an appearance after a sunny opening act.  I smellsaw unapologetic patchouli that greeted me from the first whiff and never left until the whole performance was over.  I smellglanced a dusty plant patchouli that was a somewhat rough but always interesting mistress.  I met patches of various stripes and hues and personalities.  I enjoyed making the acquaintance of every one.

If this were an unorchestrated summer of patchouli love, I'd hop on a bus with all of them, and document our travels along the way.  I wouldn't pick one or three of the pack; I'd just coexist, finding myself waking up with one or the other as whimsy and circumstance made appropriate.

But this is free love with a telos.  I need to push myself through with purpose.  

When I'm done, though, I might come back for a magical mystery tour.

When I next emerge from the patch, I will introduce you to the three scents I selected as finalists, with all of the hows/whys/gyrations involved.  You may find other bunnies as you travel the perfumed interwebz.  Many of them have already made their selections.  If you would like to keep track of the various nodes in the project -- "noses," celebrities, and perfumers -- Monica Miller is keeping it all straight for us over at the Perfume Pharmer.  See this post which lists the perfumers, the perfumes, the sniffers, and various posts about the project.

If you are just starting out, Donna's post on patchouli in perfume ("The Story of the Green Monster") is a handy review of the plant, the note, and perfumes that use it.

Summer of Love logo created by Elizabeth Whelan

photos of vials and journal, author's own

Robert Altman's photography on his Summer of Love webpage; see also his lovely books

Figs, wanted and unwanted

Another post reviewing the oddities of scent and mind.

There is an outfit by the name of Upper Canada soap company, and I am about to write about one and only one product of theirs, and I am not going to be happy about it.  Not because it did not perform as it should--it certainly did--nor because it did not smell as advertised.  That it did, too.

It's just that nobody warned me dish soap could smell like perfume.  That's right, folks; we're going on an inverse to the usual trope you'll find in perfume chat.  My issue was not that a perfume smelled like soap.  My issue was that a (dish) soap smelled like perfume.

Aldehydic perfume.

Perhaps you've not been here often, or perhaps I've somehow gently phrased and backed into my thoughts on aldehydes enough that it my come as some surprise to you that this should be an issue for me.  But trust me, I rarely like bubbles in my nose unless they are gen-you-wine bubbles from a semi-dry sparkling wine or in a perfectly drawn bath.  If I find the smell of perfume accosting me in my dish pan, tormenting me with every scrub of a pot, every swish of a dish, well...I am Not Happy.

Add in to that my vein of frugality that says "this stuff is working perfectly well and clearly does the job you asked it to do and nobody is really going to say thank you to a gift of used dish soap so you'd better suck it up and use the resource" and you end up with a rather displeased dishwasher.

Did I mention that the dish soap also performed so well the generous sized bottle lasted and lasted?  Thank you, Upper Canada, for manufacturing such an efficacious product.

(Thank you, wonderfully robust English language, for offering me an honest word of praise that allows me to say something so close to "effing" at the same time.  ALDEHYDES, I tell you!!!)

My bottle is finally, FINALLY, gone.

I have now moved on to Mrs. Meyer's Clean Day dish soap, Basil scent.  Riddle me this, Batman:  Why would a candy version of basil, something that I might find cloying in a perfume, please me so much in my kitchen sink?  Does it benefit from being held against the aldehydic terror perfumey fig that was the Upper Canada offering?

Am I okay with candy in the kitchen, but not perfume?  It is true; I never like to spray perfume in the kitchen, not even when I have my hot mitts (as in my eager hands, not my protective gear) on a fresh package from the mail that I know contains the latest something....

Sorry, Upper Canada.  I promise I will try another offering.  After all, I can see that on a value per penny basis, yours is a good choice.  I also see that no online source offers the fig scent, so maybe there's a reason I found my bottle at the closeout store.

Wash on.

***
Don't feel too sorry for me.  There is such a thing as a happy fig.

As it turns out, it's not a perfume, either.

images, including bite mark, author's own

Poll Results: Culling

I tried to thin it out in 2010:  37%
I plan to cull it in 2011:  31%
I'm just getting started, whaddaya mean cull?  18%
You'll not pry anything from my cold, dead hands   31%
Sometimes I think I will cull   18%
Collection? What collection?  12%
Who you calling "culling"?  6%

Thank you for responding.  Thank you for being all over the place...such is what I hoped.


If we are all at different points in our interest / obsession / long term plan, we should be at different points in an arc toward assessing and taming...or not.


An arc which, I think comes back around again.   


I'll be sharing the insides of other people's collections throughout 2011; some are chastisingly organized, some are delightfully random.  Let me know if you're willing to share pictures of yours--you have the option to use your real name or an alias.  :)

Tsutsumi et Cigarette

No, not a fragrance.

A reflection of two areas I have come across which offer the amazingly limbic pleasures of taking apart packaging.  A third would be, of course, perfume.

tsutsumi tea whisk

Tsutsumi is the Japanese art of gift wrapping with paper, historically more recent than furoshiki, which is wrapping with cloth.  Given the centuries of culture we're talking here, both are, to use a simple word, old.

The cellophane wrapping on a package of cigarettes?  Less than a hundred years.

I'm still trying to chase down the historical evolution of perfume packaging...not bottle design, but how the bottle is presented.  Especially the introduction of cello wrap.  Cellophane, invented in 1908.  Used for wrapping the perfume box?  Not sure.

Tactile and psychological pleasure from all?  Immeasurable.

As Tilda might say...like this:

*******
Pick up the package.  Sniff, just to see if there is product odor.  Generally, no.  Already noticing the smooth, sometimes slippery outer protective layer.  Depending on material and tightness of wrapping, perhaps an element of crinkle, both tactile and auditory.  If there is that element, an indulgence in a bit of rubbing, to feel/hear the crinkle again.  Think of skin slipping, just a little bit.  Wondering how much pressure it would take to break the seal.

If you are a careful present opener, you don't dare cross the line.  Because you are next headed to either end of the package, where the folded over ends of the outer layer meet, and are either glued or sticker sealed.  (Or both.)  A careful teasing apart of the flaps.  If all goes well, you are going to have an intact outer layer, like a complete cicada shell.

Or, if you are feeling wanton, a release of ripping and joyful noise.

Either way, you are now at the box.  And have another choice point.

*****
I must interrupt here.  Because if it is a pack of cigarettes, you have either the challenge of a foil seal or a flip top box and THEN a foil overlayer.  If it is perfume, you either have another glued box, or a flap-in flip open top, or a specially presentation box.  (Special presentations are often top-lift-off-the base types, but can have intricate fold outs, or a combination thereof, like that bottle of Niki de Saint Phalle in parfum.)

Either product, whatever way, means you are now to the heart of the matter.  And it is from here on out that you WILL be careful.  You WILL choose to preserve and protect the shell.  Because, in your heart, even if it is a simple box that you break down and put in a shoe box of other broken down boxes and don't see again because the bottle is going somewhere probably protected but definitely where storage space is at a premium and therefore the box is baggage, even if so, you have a hard time throwing away the box.  At least right away.  And maybe forever.

****
What do I know from cigarettes?  Other than that pack I shared with Ava and Maggie back in our youth, which we kept sealed in a plastic bag and hid in a niche in the alley?  And lasted for weeks, maybe months?  Because we smoked it one shared cigarette at a time, only on days when we could all get to the tree?

Well, I know that my father smoked.  Plenty.  And my reward for running to the corner store and buying him a pack (or two, but never more than two at a time) was being given permission to open it.  I loved the crinkle...the peel...the careful dissembly of the foil so that ONLY that portion of the top on one side of the label across the middle would be revealed, and you could do that cool "tap tap" and shake out one cigarette, just one, kind of like and advanced move when dealing cards.

***
In Tsutsumi, the unwrapping has a somewhat different dynamic, but is also intricate.  The folding has been deliberate, and so will be the unfolding.  There are layers within layers, and often packaging inside packaging.  The texture of the paper, the sometimes representative shapes, the origami elements...makes the unwrapping a very mindful moment.

If you aren't the type who tears off the wrapping and rips apart a box to get at the contents.

**
I have been slowly getting to the heart of my treasures from Paris.  I am being mindful of their origin, my memories of where they came from, the salespeople, the lighting in the store, the testing process (if there was one).  But I must confess, while the Paris packages are extra special, my undoing of them is not more mindful.

The mindfulness just yields a different, somewhat deeper scope of treasure.

*
I don't smoke.  Never have, except for that one shared pack in my two months of wanton youth.  Okay, and another pack equivalent of singles bummed off smokers during a certain year of semi-clubbing.  But cigarette smoke has always led to headaches and nausea and it was never really the tobacco that was ever appealing.

It was the process.

Could there be some connection between that and the fact that the only place I've ever enjoyed tobacco is in perfume?

Along with, perhaps, the shared joy of cello wrap led undressing?

~~~
Photograph of tea whisk from the Kansai Window : Essence of Japan website.


History of Golden Belt Manufacturing, responsible for packaging Bull Durham (the tobacco, not the movie), here.

The Draw (Vintage LOTV Edition)

So, today there was a drawing.

Erm... a "draw."

No, not arrows.  Sheath yourselves.  Stop quivering.

Mosquito drawing blood?  Now you're being silly.  (But hey, this gives a handy overview of what happens after a mosquito bites you.  For those of you who care to know.  Or who have 5 year olds.)

Surely you saw that one coming?


No, no, no; a drawing of a name from a vessel for purposes of identifying who shall get smidgens of vintage iterations of  Diorissimo and Coty Muguet.

The procedure went like this.

All who registered their interest were entered onto a list.  Same font, same size for each person.  (Gotta work the fair mojo.)  Then the paper was halved lengthwise (same width for each slip), and each person's name was cut out (same height).

Slips were folded in half and put into a magic vessel.

Also known as "the pottery urn thingie."




The Muguet and the Diorissimo then rested atop the entry slips to allow their vibe to permeate every entry.

A mojo making period lasting approximately the amount of time it takes to leave the room, prepare a cup of tea, let the dog back in, and make sure there are no forgotten freelance deadlines impending.



But how to extract?  Other bloggers use their cats, or their offspring, or the (now for-fee) services of an online randomizer.  Sure, I have cats, but their prehensile abilities are not so refined.  Yes, I have offspring, but I figure I like to press them into servitude for things like fetching the mail and helping me figure out where I lost my keys this time.  Besides, this was to be a hand wrought affair, reflecting the care and appreciation for every reader who participated.

And yet somehow I needed to place a distance between me and the deed, because I was going to feel badly that I could not simply send samples out to everybody.

I needed a device that required me attending to, but not actually touching, those slips.

Toaster tongs were required.

And so they were used.

Congratulations!


Krista, please contact me with your mailing info.  You'll need to scroll down through the rigamarole I've set up in the left column, to "Biographical Sniglets."  Click on "View my compete profile"; there you will be given an e-mail link.




images first through fourth, from (respectively) Union Jr/Sr High via Ball State U; Toy Haven blog; Washington Post online; Sierra College "Snowy Range Reflections" Journal.  


all other images the author's own.

Scent for a dental procedure

It is possible to overthink things.

I know this.  I know it in my head, in my heart, in my gut.

That said, I am proceeding with this post.

You see, I found myself facing 1-2 hours in an endodontist's chair.  I am not a fan of any form of dentist, though my current dentist is affable enough and seems to be competent.  It's not him; it's me.  I don't like procedures going on in my mouth, I've got a troublesome gag reflex, I don't like catching flies.  My mouth is small.  Sometimes it hurts.  Once, in my youth, a dentist removed an "extra" permanent tooth, and made a joke about saving it for a transplant.  I believed him.  I still do.  Which irks me, because, strangely, I still have a baby tooth in the *same quadrant* of my mouth.  "Extra"?  Hmmmmm.  But I digress.

(Going off on tangents is NOT overthinking.  Don't worry; I'll get there.)

So, over an hour in the chair, pretending to be calm.  Just fine.  A perfect time for a comfort scent.  Except not.  Because...two people other than myself will be sharing my personal space.  And I'm a courteous person, who doesn't wish to make them uncomfortable for half of an afternoon.  Plus, I'm a practical person.  It wouldn't really be in my interest to have people wielding drills, needles, swabs, tweezers, and the like, finding themselves unhappy, or queasy, or uncomfortable as they dangle said weapons tools within inches of my face and gaping mouth, would it now?

On top of that, I'll be compromised when it comes to comfort huffing.  No putting the wrist to the nose for a relaxing snarfle.  No applying enough to the throat to send wafts my way...what merely "wafts" to me might be oppressive to someone else.  Not even behind my ears, for the same reason.

Which means I have to both waft to suit me, but not waft too much.   If that can be done.

But wait, there's more:  If I'm really considering the angles, there's the whole "do I want them to be comfortable?  Or alert?"  Better to be alert, of course.  But not too much so; a little relaxing is good.  Aware, but relaxed.  That's a good zone.  Good for all of us.

(Right around now is where you might think I'm overthinking the whole thing.  I would beg to differ, but we can take this up later.)

Ambers are therefore out.  Too much comfort, not enough focus.  Chypres are out.  Too much danger of seeming off-putting or distracting attention.  Florals don't even flitter across the screen.  (FOCUS, people; pretty has nothing to do with this purpose!)  Cologne-like somethings might be good...naw...no waft from that by the time I arrive.  And then my mind's eye sees the bottle before I can even articulate how/why it could be just the thing.

Poor thing.  It's been tucked away, one of the ones I keep in a box in the semi-accessible space.  That's right; I've got current rotation, deep storage, and something in between.  (Again, you might think this is overthinking, but it makes selection that much easier.  For me.)  Mint green, with silver raised print.  See, even the color is settling with a hint of focus.  I can smell it in my head, and I think that's probably it.  Spritz once before showering to make sure.  Which is kind of funny, given that my wrists were hosting a 1980's retro-session for my early in the day routine.  Funny, because this scent is all this decade.

Gentle touch, but carries just enough.  Never overpowering, but good lasting power.  A spank of citrus to sharpen your mind, but iris to provide comfort without somnambulance.  It was everywhere for a while...on people, on the blogs.  But haven't heard much about it in a couple of seasons.

Prada.  Infusion d'Iris.
Just right.

***
I'm back now.  All is well.  And I didn't really waft, but I *was* pretty relaxed.  Who knows if it was enough trace of scent, or simply being confident in my choice.  Or maybe Masters of Guitar on my iPod.

I can huff it still, *if* I raise my arm to my nose.  Very nice.  We'll see if it still works after all the anesthetic wears off.

I'm happy.

(If it all comes down to that, I can't be a horrible overthinker.  Right?)

The wait, redux

In my mail, and now posing for a picture on my table:

Allow me to introduce you to my latest.  As I get ready to tell you about them, it occurs to me that, like my friends, there is quite a variety of personalities and how/why they have a place in my life.  This quintet did arrive as a clique, erm, lot, so it was all or nothing when it came to bidding on them.

You may recall how I described them in my previous post.  There is Vivara, the former formula.  Chypre, but not brash like YSL "Y."  Easy to get to know.  Quickly entered the realm of "I'd call it a staple if I had enough."  I have enough now.  That, right there, made the lot worth the cost to me.  But wait...there's more....

Giorgio.  Giorgio, Giorgio, wherefore art thou Giorgio?  A blast by any other name...would scream '80's.  But this one, THIS one, was what formed a cloud around the escalators in the Hudson's where I sold shoes for three years.  Ladies going up, ladies going down.  The perfume counter wasn't far from my department.  I usually ran by, because a colleague was always going over and grabbing a few spritzes of Poison, so I associated that glass with potential asphyxiation.  Except for the day I stopped for KL.  But that's another story.  ANYWAY, I never once applied Giorgio to my skin.  And then it was gone.  Until now.

Tuscany per Donna.  You spend enough time with perfume blogs, books, and banter, and you can develop impressions of scents you don't really pay attention to.  Like this one.  I saw the name and vague memories of love/hate came to mind.  Was it lauded in The Guide?  Turin for sure tends to extol the virtues of Lauder.  But might it not be a big screamer?  Look, it comes with friends like Giorgio and Knowing, not my bag.  But there's Vivara...and there's The One...aw, heck, give it a try.

Knowing.  Had it already.  Same miniature came in an Estee Lauder sample collection I got a while back.  (See this post.)  This one will probably be set aside for gift or swap.  'Sokay.  Need a little quiet like that for a moment before I turn my full attention to the next one.  'Cause it's a doozy.

I'm not even going to call it by name.  You can read the label.  What if I fall head over heels in love?  What if that one encounter, an evening with me, some friends, and the lovely smell behind the ear of one of my lovely companions, ends up being my downfall?  I never expected to even get this far.  But here it is.  My own bottle.  You can see by the picture that it is a "partial bottle," which is to say that the bottle is fully intact but the contents are not at full volume.  I could see that in the listing pic, too.  What I could not see in the listing is that the bottle IS STILL SEALED.

Still sealed.  That brings an extra layer of "oooh, special" to the equation.  Could be nearly perfect, the juice inside.  Or, the fact that so much evaporated off might show just how faulty the seal is.  Maybe it smells like Froot Loops.  Or a litter box.  Or my nail polish.  Or...nothing.  This still being sealed business means only one thing for sure.  I'm going to stare at and gently handle that little bottle for weeks before I attempt to open it.

Back to finding the joy in the waiting.

And so I shall.  Me, with a new Steady Eddie, and blast from the past, a novelty to explore, a gift to share, and a passionate obsession.

Kinda cool.

Vetiver! Round Two

Thanks to Helg over at Perfume Shrine, and a spot of random drawing luck, I have in my possession three new vetiver samples: Hermes Vetiver Tonka, Frederic Malle Vetiver Extraordinaire, and Serge Lutens Vetiver Oriental.

Before I begin sharing impressions, allow me a moment to speak universally. (ahem....)

"Uncle!"

And oy. I had just achieved a certain Zen-like acceptance that I would never experience all the scents in the world, that I need not bemoan the influence of fiscal realities, because physical realities were such that I actually enjoy spending a lot of time with a single scent, discovering the various facets it may have to offer, and the varieties of reception I might bring depending on weather, mood, time of day, whatnot. (Not to mention evolving scent storage issues in my home.)

But when I applied a drop of the Hermes on my wrist, realized one more probably was needed for full frontal experience, applied another from the vial, I found myself simultaneously thinking: "Oh, this is going to be fun!" and "Cr#!, I'm probably going to like this." Which means there will always be a "want" list (not so good for letting go), and always a need for good notetaking (not so good for cyclical writers like me).

Such are the vagaries of my scented life.  On to the scents themselves...

Vetiver Tonka: First, let me admit why I tried this one first--the idea of vetiver and vanilla together seemed extreme, and held the potential for fun or a headache. Hence, my delicate start to its application. The good news is that it is a good match, with the players interacting well, both taking turns and mingling nicely. If the vetiver and tonka were a dance pair, they'd be that football dude who moves across the floor with the ballerina so well. I love the earthy green interlaced with vanilla caramel. They really do take turns showing off, with happy overlappings as they take their turns.

I dunno; maybe this interplay could be related to recent research saying nobody really multitasks, but actually processes & performs in sequence. Perhaps Vetiver Tonka helps pull back the curtain ever so slightly to reveal the sequential process of "multitasking," while also helping to maintain the illusion. All I know is, first run, and I like it.

Vetiver Extraordinaire: And the accidental brilliance of my sampling order emerges, for Vetiver Extraordinaire takes me fully out of the warm blanket/kitchen comforts of the Hermes and thrusts me out of doors for an all-out vetiver smack down. Fortunately, I am a mature person, and I am not disturbed to discover I enjoy this turn of events. Ha--I so enjoy being arch...the reality is probably more along the lines of "it's a good thing I've dated Vetiver a few times before having today's experience." I feel kinda like I'm inside a vetiver reed, taking in the rest of the composition from my grassy sheath. Not a problem; I've enjoyed laying down in grass and hay with other scents. But vetiver does not come from the terra firma of my youth or experience, so this is like some very calm & comfortable yet clearly exotic acquaintance who is about to become one of my best friends. My world is opening up just a little more for knowing it. 

Vetiver Oriental: Who knew? This sampling order was genius. Vetiver Oriental brings me back around the bend and straight to a "traditional perfume." Whereas the other two register as "scents" or "constructions," my personal history with perfume means that orientals are what comes to mind if I read or hear the word "perfume." Let me be clear; a scent is a perfume, and I know that. But there is a primal register from my youth and young adulthood, and it doesn't include vetiver or woods. It does, however, firmly and directly include orientals. And, my friends, this is an oriental. I've been waiting for the vetiver, which after my first run a month ago, and this run just know, I trust I am capable of recognizing. I'm liking this in the same way I like...hey, wait a minute, I get it...Le Baiser du Dragon. Okay, so vetiver is a note inside. But it is INSIDE, one note among many. I am enjoying this, but if I were clustering by category and not house/nose, this would go oriental. Which, I guess, is the English language way of interpreting the name--the adjective "vetiver" describes what kind of "oriental" is inside the bottle. Just don't expect it to be a bold adjective.

Drydown verdicts:
Vetiver Tonka, good for low-key nights with friends, days off with books or crafts.  Cool-cold weather. "You smell good."
Vetiver Extraordinaire, good for work days or studying, cause it'll smell good and keep me sharp.  "mmm, You smell interesting."
Vetiver Oriental, one of those night out scents, or maybe something for a bit more daring day at work, since it isn't a heavy or resiny oriental. "You're all dressed up, aren't you?"

Budget awareness:
Hermes Vetiver Tonka, $55 for a 15ml decant (from manufacturer) at The Perfumed Court.
Vetiver Extraordinaire, $210 for 100ml at Barney's.
Vetiver Oriental, $140 for 50ml at LuckyScent.
Le Baiser du Dragon @$48 for 1oz at FragranceX.
Winning a sample, swapping, or sharing samples with a fellow perfume explorer, priceless.