It is often said that fragrances transport us. Indeed, some of my favorites—including Parfum d’Empire’s Wazamba, Jazeel’s Heyam, and the Incense Series by Commes des Garçons—have more than a resinous quality in common. Each is also intimately connected to the spirit of a place, whether in the regional specificity of its note profile (such as Wazamba’s Afrocentric symphony of ingredients from Somalia, Kenya, Ethiopia, and Morocco) or by force of suggestion in the name. Al Andalus checks off those boxes and then some. What puts this masterpiece from the Italian house of Moresque and the nose of Andrea “Thero” Casotti on its own pedestal is the inwardness it affords the moment I apply it. Never have I beheld a scent that pulls such a vivid constellation of time and place into me rather than me into it.

As the opening release of ginger embraces my nostrils like an old friend, it bears saffron and black pepper as gifts from afar. Despite the connotations of distances traveled, “exotic” and other outdated descriptors must go straight into the kitsch bin, making way for the more accurate word pictures of “bitingly warm” and “darkly gold-flecked.” The brocade of light and shadow that plays about its introduction is extraordinary. It changes during every inhalation—so much so that I wish I didn’t have to exhale in between.

As the hands on the clock go obtuse, then acute, a quiet comfort takes over. A heart of oud from Kalimantan Island shines like a candle in a blackout—which is to say, with unadulterated vitality. The slightest breaths of wind remind me of where this reunion began, hinting at slumber. Memories and stories lure my attention from the present while enhancing bodily awareness.

Tendrils of Haitian vetiver, French labdanum, and birch braid themselves until two become one, leaving a bed of wonder that smells of the soul. Only then do I realize I’ve been speaking to myself the whole time, curling inside out.

How appropriate, then, that Al Andalus should last 12 hours. Its diurnal character shifts from golds to greens throughout the day, foreshadowing the night with its sunlit opening. What begins with the excitement of an open-air market gradually turns dusky, becoming a scent for the skin within. Such an experience is rare in perfumery, and yet, here it awaits, a sky without a cloud but for the wisp of smoke in whose name it settles.