Violets

I am trapped by the scent of violets.  That sweet, but sugarless, fragrance.  It speaks of safety, rightness, dignity, rescue - even - and rises above all the sugary, vanillary, almost gluey smells that today's perfumes exude.  Especially at a Duty Free.  You can barely tell one from the next, unless you are reminded of the food you have recently eaten, soap you have recently used, or a cleaning product you have gainfully employed.

But violets.  Not too overpowering, not too cloying, but just the top note from a bunch of flowers picked for their beauty.

My grandfather always picked a small bunch of violets to wear in his lapel buttonhole.

Once, when I was lost somewhere outside Frankfurt, heading in completely the wrong direction for the airport, and had to change trains in the middle of nowhere, with no ability to communicate my problem in German,  a middle-aged, well-dressed couple registered my predicament and explained to the train conductor what had happened and, as I had no Euros left, even paid for my fare.  When we arrived back in Frankfurt, they took me to the correct station and pointed me in the right direction.  All the time I was with with them, I could smell her beautiful perfume of violets.  

Ever since then, I have tried to find her perfume.  I won't, of course, and even if I did, I would probably not buy it.  The pleasure is in the seeking.  And, just for the record, the scent is not only taken from the flower, but also from its leaf.  Perfect.