Andros by Parera

A pure classic from the 80s, it smells clean and is a must-have for any collector. It’s a shame it’s so hard to find nowadays, just like Dandy Man or Royal Regiment Sun; without a doubt, these are treasures that shouldn’t be missing from your shelf.

For many Spaniards in the 80s, Andros by Parera was the perfect substitute for Chanel’s Antaeus, a scent many didn’t even know existed. Parera created incredible men’s fragrances, like this one and Dandy Man. Forget the aquatic description on the data sheet; here lies a world of oriental, woody, and spicy notes. Some say it launched in 1987, but I’d argue it was earlier, around 1981 like Antaeus. It was created by an unknown perfumer with a rare honesty you rarely see today. The ads showed a sirtaki dancer on a yacht, evoking Ibiza and Mykonos, very much in the 70s Playboy style. Anyone from Gunter Sachs to Patrick Gilles could have worn it; it’s a powerhouse. Poor Brigitte, who has seen her and who sees her now. Andros was cosmopolitan, sophisticated, and masculine. The Spaniards who wore it didn’t suspect anything; they wore it because it was in the supermarkets, advertised heavily, and smelled great. It had that rich blend of rose, jasmine, leather, and pepper. If you wore it, I’d say, ‘I know what you did last summer.’ It was a potent Chypre, distilled in Crete, where juniper, thyme, and other Mediterranean herbs masculinized those velvety floral effluvia. It featured one of the most mysterious patchoulis I remember: sweet, earthy, and sensual. It was a sexual scent, for nights of cognac and blond tobacco, sweat on sunburned skin, and open shirts on hairy torsos. The ideal companion for a woman in a turban and silk suit, red lips, and blue eyes, in a primal orgy where perfume and passion blurred together.

Bufff… one of my all-time favorites. My dad’s boss used to wear it when I was fourteen, and I bought it because I loved it, though maybe it wasn’t for my age. I went through several bottles; I bought the last one at a little neighborhood shop after Parera closed, and until recently, it sat in my mom’s house just so I could smell it. I remember that black bottle, cheap and wonderful, along with the ad featuring Greek music. I’d love to know if there’s anything similar today; I’d buy it without hesitation.

I tried it today without buying it. Imagine a bottle of well-shaken, uncapped Ginger Ale: an explosion of citrus, ginger, and fizz. That’s Andros’s opening. I don’t want to sound arrogant criticizing other forum users, but comparing this to Xeryus, Antaeus, or VC&A Pour Homme is like saying a 1982 Lada Niva is equal to a Bugatti because both have four wheels. They say it smells like a swimming pool with lemon peels and birch leaves floating. Once that initial cloud of chlorine, alcohol, and sharp lemon fades, the good part begins: good sillage of citronella, bergamot, a bit of lavender, perhaps neroli, and a cherry note that gives it personality. Finally, something resinous adds stability. It lasts quite a while, I admit. Ideal for a summer morning right after a shower, without wanting to overwhelm yourself with complex aromas. I didn’t expect much for the price, but it has its own charm: an acceptable fougère for those who like it, even if it’s considered outdated today.

We entered an abandoned house on the last day of the year, lost in the countryside and forgotten for twenty years. It was cold, and only the wind broke the silence. Rumors said the family had fled due to a cult. The cold living room welcomed us on the ground floor; a ray of sunlight illuminated a rag doll in a hammock, while dust floated over everything, covering even the goat-skin floor. There were old liquors, a huge TV, silver cutlery, and silent porcelain. We went upstairs into the darkness with flashlights: an office with papers, a safe, images of the Virgin Mary and rosaries on the floor, alongside books on architecture and economics. In a drawer, sepia photos and a box of bullets. Rooms with old clothes, jackets, and shoes; another with motorcycle posters and an open video game magazine, as if the boy expected to return. In the last one, boxes of clothes and toiletries were thrown around: combs, soaps, creams. My flashlight illuminated a dark box with elegant letters: ‘Andros by Parera.’ I took it out; it was new. Although the unwritten rule says not to take anything, my addiction to perfumes made me steal it. It was the worst start to a year of my life: the five-year-old told me it was time to leave. Our relationship was as worn out as that faux-leather jacket in the closet: just an empty shell. I felt amputated, in freefall, covering my ears to the painful inner echo. But I didn’t fall into self-destruction. A conviction arose: to rebuild myself, to keep moving forward. Pure survival. For months, I used that 240 ml bottle. It was a period of pride in the effort against the collapse of my life. I worked harder than ever, took courses, looked for new people, and lived healthily. When my head spun with the past or sorrow grabbed hold, I reset and focused on what I liked. Andros was with me: dark and sturdy, with an opening like VC&A Pour Homme, then discreet and calm. It had seriousness, responsibility, ‘let’s be adults,’ and a romantic, assertive dry-down. It was a humble Antaeus, simplified but beloved. The perfume of ‘let’s get to work, I don’t have time.’ It accentuated my character and worked great for me. Dry, brief, soothed, and substantial, I used it to perfume my soul. When I finished the bottle, with a new life, I sought another bottle I use sparingly. It reminds me that anyone can do anything and that consistency is vital. I have great affection for Andros. I like to think that bottle thanked me for saving it from ruin and helped me add color to the ruin I had become.