Capucci de Capucci by Roberto Capucci

Time flies, and now this hurts more; sometimes I feel like I don’t fit into a reality that changes at lightning speed. But some fragrances are like a window that suddenly opens, bringing you back to a past that no longer exists. Pure 80s vibes: scooters, house parties or basement gatherings full of friends, payphone booths from my era to call my first loves… I remember when I was a kid, using them during long afternoons outside. There were no cell phones, so only two options: go to a bar or use those booths, which back then seemed like a triumph of progress. We never imagined that years later they’d become obsolete, yet looking at them now fills us with emotion. Material traces of the past always soothe, especially in an era of brutal change. I admit that sometimes I feel like a doorless phone booth: outdated, comfortable, and struggling at the same time, inside and outside the world, living on an uncertain border. But it’s okay; that’s how years go by, memories pile up, and distant times, different rhythms, and almost lost values are recalled. And here comes the culprit of this rambling. Capucci is a chypre, but not one that hits you right in the face. It’s light and silky, with a delicate, close trail, but don’t underestimate it. A sober, refined, elegant fragrance; slightly dated for modern noses but pleasantly powdery and very attractive, with just enough staying power to make me constantly sniff my wrist. The prelude can even scare noses not inclined toward vintage; it seems sharp. When the heart blooms, it reconciles you with the world. Beautiful, very refined, and elegant; all the flowers blend perfectly, none too flashy, overlapping to descend into a floral base so wonderfully trapped in a velvet bed that it almost melts you. It could be a worthy alternative for anyone hunting for Le Dix without breaking the bank, with the difference that while Le Dix plays out in a green cream note, Capucci wraps you in a peach and apricot velvet coat. I wouldn’t go back in time; the rhetoric of the good old days isn’t mine. But I’d love to spend a few brief holidays in the past: one weekend a year, just to reclaim the me of yesterday (who I was and never will be again) and relive atmospheres and scents definitively lost, dissolved by the passage of time.