Byblos by Byblos

I stumbled upon it a few years ago with a decant and it was a pleasant surprise: a bottle that looks like Guerlain’s Samsara but smells like a unique explosion of flowers and fruits. I can’t think of any other fragrance it reminds me of; I believe nothing else is like it. I’d love to own the original bottle, but it’s impossible to find here in Argentina. A lost gem from another time.

What a pity, because I thought hard about buying it without even trying it, thanks to the amazing reviews and because I’m a fan of Ermenegildo Zegna. Someone mentioned it smelled like bad hairspray, and I thought exactly that—an unbearable point. I only sensed that suffocating smell and got rid of it immediately. Honestly, it saddened me because I was so eager for it, and it’s probably a lovely fragrance, but it just didn’t work for me.

A precious fragrance, full of mystery and an oriental air that ages with dignity. It has a rare sweetness, like sugar in a bitter herbal sip. From that discreet blue bottle comes something so bold yet delicate. It needs time (even though the start is sublime); you have to experience and know it well before judging. It’s too complex to judge by first impressions. The fruit’s youth is surprising; at first, it smells like fresh quince boxes. Then the flowers arrive, a varied bouquet that prolongs the sweetness but with less sunny notes. Finally, the pepper that was always there, wrapped up, waits for its moment. It’s eclectic and sensual, though certainly not for everyone.

What memories, I adored it: very fruity, summery, sweet, and long-lasting. Suddenly, I couldn’t find it anymore, what a pity.

In the nineties, there was a trend for floral/fruity women’s perfumes; most were similar—sweet peaches, woody, luxurious, or fun youthful versions. Then there was Byblos, with its own personality. It was floral/fruity and sweet, but had something that made you think of a refreshing, musky, velvety breeze. Some perfumes create synesthesia, where the exterior hints at the interior. Byblos, when the brand was something, was a great example: it made you think of a Mediterranean Europe, that clash of cultures between Greece, Turkey, and Cyprus, that Europe of legends and mythology. I don’t remember it as well as I’d like, but I know that beneath that crowd of flowers and fruits lay a hint of roughness without being sour, like the inner courtyard of a Greek palace in Byzantine blue tones, damp, aged water where less cloying flowers and fruits sailed. A mix of floral and fruity sweetness with an almost acrid talc-like tone, thanks to violet, iris, musk, vetiver, pineapple, and cassia. It wasn’t a bad perfume.

A perfume for connoisseurs only; I love it. It’s deeply captivating and delicate, long-lasting but not invasive. It’s unlike anything else, and I wouldn’t recommend it to just any woman; I tried it on friends and they didn’t like it, but I assure you, it’s extraordinary.

The citrus opening is so intense it literally makes your mouth water.