
Strolling down Via dei Cimatore I caught a fresh floral breeze wafting by, or was it a grassy spring-like scent? I turned, and there it was, a store so inviting, I was magnetized to enter. It was a world of mirrors and bottles dressed in Florentine finery standing to be revered. And then, there was handsomely dressed Ilario. Thankfully, he spoke English. He pronounced his name “Ill-ahhh-dio” with the appropriate pause in the middle, like a romantic sigh. He greeted me with a slight bow and a dazzling smile and reached for my hand. I was afraid he was actually going to kiss it. Instead he started with the sales promotion, so courteously I felt revered myself.
Ilario was most charming in his delivery and Italian accent, and began offering one scent stick at a time, slowly and with purpose all the while speaking softly about the perfume history, and manufacturer, but more importantly how to make it your best friend. “You must have a scent of your own, Madame,” he purred with his Italian accent sounding like the intonation of a priest. Ilario presented one miraculous flavor to the nose after another. “This one has in it the rose,” he went on. “For you.” With a slight bow, he offered the scent stick. It was scent and seduction at its best.

Betty is a California-based writer whose work explores local history, travel, food, and the people who shape community life. Her storytelling is rooted in curiosity, culture, and real-world experience.