My mother has bought some Rive Gauche, which had its heyday in the time of Studio 54, a scent so iconic that it brings me back to 1977 when staring at that black and Yves Klein blue bottle would make me feel tremendously sophisticated.
It's just my mother and me for a week and I am in awe of her stamina, eschewing the wheelchair and clambering up the steps of the plane, apologizing left and right for her slowness. She is a marvel, her hands neatly manicured, her nail beds deep and enviably elegant. She doesn't use hand cream unless I remind her but her skin is still supple and smooth. We are of course dressed identically, without intending to do so; jeans (mine ripped as if I have fought wild wolves), white shirts, a red puffy waistcoat for her, a navy sweater for me. Our bags red and navy blue. We are Norwegian, of course. 🇳🇴