Jasmine over a wall in late spring. Restrained.
Three drops of jasmine, never more. The petitgrain is what un-flowers it — keep it generous. Cypress at five is the green note that earths the sandalwood. Build up if you must, never down.
It's late April on Crescent Drive in Beverly Hills, twenty-two degrees, and you're walking slowly. The houses are enormous, but the thing you remember is the smell of jasmine, mixing with warm tarmac. All that opulence around you, and you're standing on the pavement smelling a vine.