It started on one of those offensively beautiful spring afternoons in the park, the kind of sunlight that makes everybody look temporarily forgiven for every sin they have ever committed. Except in the corner stood a girl—nineteen at most—with her arms folded tightly across her chest, crying in the discreet way young women cry in public when they still believe composure is a moral achievement. It was a restrained little tragedy: one tear escaping at a time, wiped away almost instantly, her face locked in the expression of someone trying to hold back a titanic flood with sheer concentration. You could tell the situation possessed the unstable atmospheric conditions necessary to become catastrophic at any second.

It was her first day working for the nursery school that supervised toddlers in the park, and apparently one of her coworkers—a woman with the constitutional energy of a minor fascist bureaucrat, the sort of person who might have thrived alphabetizing human suffering somewhere in 1938—had informed her, quite publicly and with astonishing enthusiasm, that she smelled bad.

“I had to tell her,” the woman was saying now, defending herself to another employee in the wounded tone people use when they’ve confused cruelty with honesty. “What was I supposed to do?”

“You’re forty years old,” her colleague replied. “You cannot tell a teenage girl she smells bad on her first day of work. She’s never going to lift her arms again. She’s not coming back here.”

And the thing was: there was nothing remotely impressive about the accuser. If this had been some magnificent, intimidatingly elegant woman delivering the insult with tragic continental severity, perhaps one could at least appreciate the aesthetics of the humiliation. But no. She possessed the sort of exhausting mediocrity no shower on earth could remedy. Her clothes looked plain. Her haircut looked punitive. The thought of a person like this participating in the emotional development of children gave me an almost ecclesiastical anxiety.

Eventually, the older coworker ordered her to apologize.

Unfortunately, the apology itself somehow managed to become a second humiliation. It was loud, theatrical, and phrased with the defensive panic of someone who wishes to be congratulated for inflicting pain correctly. She giggled while explaining why she’d been forced to say it, as though embarrassment were an unfortunate administrative necessity rather than something she had personally engineered thirty seconds earlier.

Watching this disturbed me far more than it rationally should have.

I felt exactly the way I had felt reading The Hunchback of Notre-Dame as a child and arriving at the scene where the crowd mocks Quasimodo during the Festival of Fools. Poor Quasimodo, who had already endured enough: orphaned, isolated in a bell tower, psychologically marinated by a priest, finally venturing into sunlight hoping to participate in humanity for five minutes before some mob of illiterate peasants decided to turn his existence into a carnival game. It upset me then and it upset me now. Human beings love a public stoning provided the stones are made of gummy bears so when they are thrown back it doesn’t hurt. I looked up from my bench and suddenly felt like Esmeralda preparing to throw herself protectively over Quasimodo.

At this point disco music was leaking directly into my optic nerves through my Meta Smart Glasses and I decided somebody needed to restore law and order to my playground, over which I had, without official appointment, begun to regard myself as a kind of municipal authority.

So I interrupted from my seat on the bench.

“Excuse me, Hi.” I said. “The odor of your presence is revolting. Not your physical smell—your essence. You smell spiritually poisoned, which is much worse then whatever you’re complaining about. It’s effecting this entire place of play and imagination, including my glorious child over there. Frankly, listening to you makes me want to stop showering altogether. You smell like somebody who laughs before saying cruel things because she lacks the courage to say them cleanly, without giggling and flapping around like a street pigeon bathing in a pile of dust.”

The woman stared at me in pale horror.

I continued, because unfortunately there exists somewhere inside me the soul of a trial attorney, revolutionary, or televangelist—some profession requiring total confidence untethered from reason. God’s machine gun fire at work. Some ex boyfriends have had the privilege but never a stranger in the park.

“I would rather leave my son alone with her than with you,” I said. “Please avoid working with toddlers, adolescents, or ideally anybody possessing a nervous system.”

Then I looked back down and finished my coffee with the calm dissociation of a man who has already accepted prison as a possibility.

Silence spread through the playground. The nursery workers gathered the children with startling efficiency and began evaporating from the park one by one like a collapsing cult. Since becoming a parent, I have acquired the alarming confidence of somebody who is okay doing this.

Soon only three of us remained: me, the retired old man who came every afternoon to watch birds, and the girl, who appeared to have resigned from her job spiritually, if not yet administratively.

I smiled at her while my son ran across the playground in ecstatic circles.

“You know,” I said gently, “it’s actually fine to smell bad once in a while. Probably healthy.”

She looked at me cautiously.

“Apparently Che Guevara smelled terrible,” I continued. “And people, including me, still found him incredibly attractive. If he walked through this park right now, he would simultaneously be the worst-smelling and most beloved person here.”

I worried briefly that I was making things worse but couldn’t stop talking.

“I doubt Jesus Christ smelled like roses either,” I added. “And he accomplished considerably more than your employer.”

Then I turned to the old man beside me.

“I’ve always thought roses smell like funerals, anyway. For Instance, Hôtel Costes, big funeral parlor.”

The bird watcher remained blissfully lost inside a tree branch somewhere beyond civilization.

The girl still wasn’t speaking, but she was listening, and I could feel each ridiculous sentence distracting her from whatever merciless thing she’d begun telling herself internally.

I pointed toward my son.

“Look at him. Biggest child on the playground. Built like Cold War infrastructure. Never sick a day in his life. When his father and I got together, his father had just returned from some skateboarding tour through the developing world and apparently hadn’t showered in weeks. He picked me up from the train station smelling prehistoric. I remember being simultaneously offended and strangely impressed that I actually liked the smell.”

She laughed softly.

“And supposedly,” I continued, “scientists say that if you genuinely like somebody’s smell when they smell objectively bad, it means you’re genetically compatible. Which sounds fake, but also feels true in the ancient, humiliating way many important things do.”

I lowered my voice conspiratorially.

“That woman doesn’t even know what she smells like anymore. She’s buried herself beneath bad shampoo and politeness and whatever else people use to erase themselves. She probably doesn’t know what her husband smells like either. They probably produced some pale little victorian child with seasonal allergies and an anxiety disorder.”

The girl laughed harder now.

“You two simply weren’t biologically compatible,” I said. “That’s all this was. It doesn’t mean you smell bad. One day somebody will smell you—actually smell you, clean or dirty—and think it’s the most wonderful smell in the world. And when that happens, biologically speaking, that’s basically nature giving you permission to reproduce enormous healthy children to grace the population with. Until then, keep dancing with your arms up.”

At that exact moment my phone rang.

It was the courier from Byredo informing me he was standing in my courtyard holding an enormous bag of perfume and other scented products that I was being sent.

So naturally I went home thinking about penguins.

Not real penguins exactly, but the idea of penguins. Antarctic penguins: black and white, crisp, cold, pure. Creatures so visually immaculate they almost seem theoretical. We encounter them mostly through documentaries and expensive photography books because nature, in her wisdom, has hidden the smell behind zoo glass and geography. Apparently, though, an actual penguin colony smells so catastrophic and biologically aggressive that it becomes difficult to focus on their beauty at all.

Which made me realize humanity before modern hygiene must have smelled roughly identical. Imagine a romance in medieval Europe in July. That’s probably why the church banned premarital sex.

Eventually the problem became severe enough that someone invented perfume. Then deodorant. Then clinical antiperspirants. Then people began injecting Botox into their armpits to stop sweating entirely. Layer after layer after layer. The invisible costume was crafted alongside the visible one. Conceal me down to the molecular level. Cover me up and hide me down to the last atom in my body, baby.

The Romanov family had centuries’ worth of imperial diamonds sewn underneath their clothing the night they were murdered by the Bolsheviks. It took a long time to kill them because the bullets being fired ricocheted off the jewels. That all started because somebody was living a better life than the people holding the guns. I can go further and say it all started because one side of the room smelled distinctly better than the other side of the room. Penguins never needed armor like that because penguins never needed revolutions. They never needed to smell good. I wondered if they were even aware of their terrible oder. That was a specifically human element: no shame, no concealment, no reinvention. Just eternal repetition and stink. Penguins are pure but also disgusting. Humans are fraudulent but inventive.

Penguins were allowed to smell bad and exist for millennia in the same awful scent and way of being, repeating every day exactly as they had ten million years before. Humans, on the other hand, need to hide for survival. That is the burden of our species. We hide our bodies with fabric, our smell with perfume, our feelings with opposite feelings. We hide silence with music and camouflage our egos in the romantic partners we choose. Shielding ourselves from everything in rooms or castles. The more we hide, the more agile we become. Eventually we need revolutions and divorces to strip everything back down once we’ve wandered too far from the plot, burdened by everything we acquired while doing such a fantastic job concealing the ever-thin veneer of civilization.

And then we start all over again. That is the story of us.

We are the only animals prone to this sort of psychotic cycle. I’m sure even Che Guevara, after a long day in the jungle, wanted to smell good to seduce the women he loved, and Jesus Christ to seduce God.

This useless stream of thought led me to only two absolutes I felt certain of regarding myself that afternoon: I did not want to smell like a penguin, and if I were ever being shot at by a group of Bolsheviks, I wanted enough diamonds hidden in my clothes to somehow miraculously protect me entirely from the onslaught of communist fire. Finally as violent as it sounds, I wanted to be on the side of the room that smelt better. The best answer to both seemed to be sitting in the Byredo delivery bag the courier had handed me that afternoon in my courtyard.

Author’s Notes

Savannah Nolan is an American writer, essayist, and editor based in Paris. Formerly Editor-at-Large at Purple Fashion, she has contributed to Interlope, Vogue, and 1989. An anthropologist of the absurd, she writes at the intersection of fashion, culture, and philosophy, tracing the comic undercurrents that run through vanity, spectacle, and the darker realities of contemporary life.

Think less sightseeing, more tuning into the moment, as you discover a city decoded through mood, sound, scent, and scene.

IT’S NOT ABOUT WHERE TO GO IN PARIS. IT’S ABOUT HOW PARIS FEELS.

IMRUH ASHA

Stylist and Fashion Director at Dazed magazine, Imruh Asha is known for his sharp eye and a bold, image-led approach. Drawing on his Dutch-Caribbean heritage as well as fine art and contemporary culture, he has cultivated an aesthetic that is both singular and avant-garde. His version of Paris is anchored in Belleville, shot through with in-the-know fashion addresses and his favourite restaurants, which are always miles away from both cliché and ostentation.

If Paris had a scent, what would it be?

Something musky. A soft, persistent scent that lingers on the skin, just like the city itself: present, textured, and familiar.

What places in Paris hold memories only you know?

The studios I had in the 10th arrondissement; quiet spaces where a lot of my creative work took shape. Places to focus, experiment, and build.

What place, texture, or sound instantly brings you back to Paris, wherever you are?

Thinking about Parc des Buttes-Chaumont. The trees, the plants, the views—there’s something about the way it all comes together that’s just beautiful, and it always reminds me of the city.

What part of the city feels most like you—and why?

Belleville. It’s where I live and work—it’s my neighbourhood. Everything I need is there, and it feels like its own world within the city.

Do you have a ritual in Paris you never skip? Tell us the story behind it.

I’m all about routine. I go between Ya Lamai, Kuma Donburi, and Bibimcup almost every week for good Thai food, Japanese curry, and Korean bibimbap. It’s good food, no fuss, and I never get tired of it. They’ve just become part of how I move through the city.

What’s a part of Paris people always get wrong? What’s the real story for you?

The 2nd arrondissement. Most people think of Rue Saint-Honoré or the Louvre; it’s seen as a tourist zone, with all the big names and boutiques. But for me, it’s the Japanese district. That’s where you’ll find some of the best food in the city.

If you could gift a stranger one Parisian experience, what would it be— and why?

I’d take them to eat at Le Mandarins de Belleville for some good food. Then across the street to M8 for a few games of pool—the energy there is relaxed. I’d finish with a bike ride along the Seine. It’s an easy, unpolished way to see the city.

Which place tells a better story than any museum?

Dover Street Market Paris. It’s always shifting, with new designers, new ideas, but they never shout about it. It feels more like a living edit than a store, which says more than most exhibitions do. Broken Arm and Yvon Lambert. Broken Arm blends fashion, design, and coffee in a space that feels curated but relaxed. Yvon Lambert is more low-key, but always worth a stop for books and art.

LUCIEN PAGÈS

Lucien Pagès is one of Paris’s most iconic publicists. A globally renowned press agent and founder of the eponymous communications agency, he represents some of the world’s leading fashion houses. Since the beginning, he has cham pioned an approach that is warm, accessible, and passionately devoted. With this in mind, he shares his favourite spots, urban rituals, and above all, his unique perspective on Paris—a city he describes as timeless yet always full of surprises; both exhilarating and disorienting.

If Paris had a smell, what would it be?

The scent of nature along the banks of the Seine, as spring gently settles in, trees begin to bud, and the air fills with promise. That suspended moment when the city seems to breathe again, bathed in light, freshness, and renewal.

Which places in Paris hold memories that only you know?

The lobby of my apartment building.

What’s your favourite Paris routine?

Oeufs mayonnaise (bistro egg mayonnaise), especially the ones at Le Voltaire, are a monument to simplicity. The only dish whose price has never changed, which has remained constant over the years. A timeless, comforting, democratic dish that’s accessible for everyone, and a reminder that sometimes, real sophistication lies in consistency.

If you could give a stranger a single Parisian experience, what would it be?

Crossing Paris on the River Seine is one of the most beautiful ways to discover the city. Each riverbank brings a new setting, blending iconic monuments with everyday Parisian life, flowing alongside.

Which place tells a better story than any museum?

The covered passages—especially Passage Choiseul —embody what I consider to be the real Paris. A place suspended in time, with a surprise around every corner.

Name the two places in the city that define the spectrum of “cool” in Paris.

The Ritz and La Perle

MORGAN MORRIS SANS & JEROME SANS

Jérôme is a curator, art critic, and artistic director. Morgan is the founder of Unique Design X, a mobile salon dedicated to contemporary art and design. With a shared passion for art and creativity, they both have a deep affection for Paris. For them, it’s a humanist, effervescent city, overflowing with beauty. Together, they uncover a Paris that is both contrasted and sensitive; oscillating between the iconic spaces of the city’s artistic scene and the personal addresses of their daily life.

If Paris had a smell, what would it be?

Morgan: It would be the scent of tuberose; a delicate yet bewitching flower with irresistible, hypnotic power. For me, it’s an addictive scent that’s steeped in desire.

Which part of Paris feels most like you?

Jérôme: The 10th, just by Gare de l’Est. Crossroads of cultures, languages, and scents from elsewhere; a world in motion, woven of difference, where life thrums and overflows. It’s like a city within the city.

What are your favourite Paris routines?

Morgan: Sundays at Paul Bert or Porte de Vanves flea markets; vanilla croissants from Mamiche at the weekend; post-workout ice baths at Klay; spontaneous drinks with friends at Hôtel Grand Amour; Korean BBQ picnic lunches in the gardens of the Palais-Royal between meetings.

What’s a part of Paris people always get wrong?

Jérôme: The Château d’Eau neighbourhood is often written off for being noisy and chaotic. People see only the turmoil and fear the unknown. But it’s actually a vibrant crossroads, rich with interwoven cultures; a place of raw energy and quiet encounters. The true beating heart of Paris.

What places in Paris hold memories that only you know?

Morgan: Les Bains Douches, Le Palace, Gibus Club, the library at the Pompidou Centre, the restaurant at Hôtel Grand Amour, the town hall of the 10th arrondissement, Café Beaubourg, and the offices of Galerie Templon and Galerie Karsten Greve.

If you could give a stranger a single Parisian experience, what would it be?

Jérôme: Paris today has arguably the world’s best cultural offering. I would offer a citywide journey designed like a living musical score. We’d start with a sound performance, followed by a couple of exhibitions in different institutions and contemporary art galleries; we’d go to a bookshop, take in a spontaneous reading on a rooftop or along the banks of the Seine; then gradually moving on to dinner, followed by an experimental concert. It would be an experience without a beginning or an end, drifting between day and night, where architecture, art, music, literature, fashion, and gastronomy all become one with the city itself. That, to me, is Paris.

What place in Paris tells a better story than any museum?

Morgan: La Conciergerie; the fateful tower where Marie-Antoinette was imprisoned before being taken to the guillotine. “The flipside of beauty.”

If Paris were a Byredo fragrance, which one would it be?

Jérôme: Bibliothèque, because Paris is like an open-air library. Each street is a page from a story, whether it’s a classic or just being written. Its buildings, its streets, its bridges, its gardens, and booksellers are the living shelving of a memory that’s forever being written.

JOHANNA TORDJMAN

“A pause in time; a moment suspended between past and present, the personal and the collective.”

Johanna Tordjman is a painter and a rising star of the French contemporary art scene. She takes an almost documentary approach, using vibrant portraits and colour ful personal scenes to give visibility to stories that are marginalised, overlooked, or often absent from representation. In the same way, she shares her perspective on Paris; from the suburban town of Créteil where she grew up, to her current neighbourhood in the 11th arron dissement, and the flea markets of Saint-Ouen. Johanna invites us to stray from the well-worn paths and tourist traps, far from preconceived ideas of the city.

If Paris had a smell, what would it be?

The scent of baking bread that wafts out from bakeries. It’s the one thing I end up missing when I’m abroad.

Which places in Paris hold memories that only you know?

Belleville market, which reminds me of the one in Créteil that I used to go to with my grandmother. I sometimes treat myself to a doughnut or a fricassé. The community garden at the foot of my building, which has the same scent of flowers as my grandparents’ balcony.

What’s your favourite Paris routine?

Every time I come across a small neighbourhood flea market, I stop and look for antique photographs to use in my work. It’s a moment suspended in time, where I reconnect with Paris; with the past and present, the personal and the collective. A tiny ritual that fuels my creativity and reminds me that Paris is, above all, a city of people and their intersecting stories.

What’s a part of Paris people always get wrong?

People are often too lazy to cross the ring road and go out into the suburbs. I still go back mostly to see my family and childhood friends. It’s quieter, the people are much friendlier than in Paris, and a coffee really does cost €1,50.

If you could give a stranger a single Parisian experience, what would it be?

A Champions League match at Parc des Princes, surrounded by people who love Paris more than anyone, singing their love for the city and the club as one.

Which place tells a better story than any museum?

Saint-Ouen flea market. It’s a concentration of treasures, from designer furniture to vintage gems. The passionate sellers can tell you the stories behind every find. My favourite spot is the Marché Vernaison, I often find inspiration there for details or framing ideas.

Photographies: Marc Shelly

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may be reproduced in whole or part without

written permission from the copyright holders.

© Byredo 2025

Wake up, jumpstart immediately. Brush your teeth till you see pink on the toothbrush. Wash face, cold water. Blast music. What you play determines how the day’s gonna feel. Alice in Chains. Loud as hell. Turn shower on, hot water, or brutally cold water if I haven’t slept much, high water pressure necessary.

Be a man, use 2in1 shampoo/ body wash or better yet 3in1.

Or, be like me, use your girl’s shampoo, use her conditioner, use her body wash. Scented. Beautiful scents. So many beautiful scents.

Use her face wash. Use it all. Don’t tell her. Never tell her.

If not, I’m faced with using the hotel’s stuff. I haven’t stayed in the same city for more than 3 weeks at a time in 11 years. But I do have an American Postal Service leather bag which I’ve transformed into my wash bag. So I can use my own Moroccan black soap. Moisturizer. Eye serum. Eyedrops. Bang, you’re up. Coffee. Coffee. Wait for hair to dry. Check emails. Assess the day. Coffee. Don’t eat. If you do, eggs, barely any oil. Sardines even, if you don’t mind. I don’t mind. Skinfood. Sardines save your life, they saved mine. Eggs, sardines, feta, olive oil. Also, have a spoon of black seed oil separately. Down all vitamins. Muscle testing (kinesiology) lets me know what I need. I often need a ton of Omega-3. From years of neglect. That has changed now (i tell myself). Coffee. Fresh orange juice. Cigarette.

Consider using peptides. Consider it. Then don’t do it. Consider it though. It’s imperative that you consider it, and then go on fighting. Hair’s dry. Gel - REDONE WAX GEL from Shepherd’s Bush, or any local hood beauty store. Literally ANY hood beauty store. Like actually, f****** any. Paris, London, New York. Hood classic. Super goddamn strong. Luscious curls. Scented. Then cologne. Mojave Ghost. Always Mojave Ghost. Can’t do without Mojave Ghost. F*** my life without Mojave Ghost. I like to smell lovely. Like a Mojave ghost. Wrists. Behind ears. Couple sprays on jacket, couple on jeans. Couple in the air and walk into it. Immersion! Go in the sun, if she’s out. Bathe in it for like 2 secs. Call your mother. Say a prayer and go forth. And try and do something nice if you’re prone to getting in trouble later (i.e. helping an old person cross the street).

Go to a cafe and doomscroll because it’s our equivalent of the newspaper. I have been known to do a crossword from time to time to keep my brain plastic.

Then begin.

P.S. If you travel all the time, you’ve got two things: Faith and a uniform. Always buy underwear and socks at the airport. Travel light. One pair of jeans and some sweaters and jackets and a good pair of shoes go a long way xx

Author’s Notes

I’m Ahmed Alramly, founder of NAIMA Publication. Essayist. Image maker. Lover of the internet. Grew up in London and New York. Lived in Paris. Back home now in England. I enjoy gothic architecture almost sexually. Not married, no kids. I’m interested in the convergence of contraries, places where seemingly disparate cultures meet. I hang out at Mecca, I also hang out at Wetherspoons, but you can find me often at Highgate Cemetery. I have been described by Vice as the ‘epitome of shenanigans.’ I agree. I watch a sh*t ton of movies too. I’m addicted to my senses. I’m indulgent that way. I started to really obsess over scent particularly after I read Perfume: Story of a Murderer. I like the smell of bread and cheese and olive oil and coffee and stuff like that. I’m not a sweet tooth. So I’m drawn to scents that are less on the sweet side. Byredo provided me with all the sensual wonders I needed to figure that shit out so I could smell good against a cold world! Mojave Ghost is my shield.

There’s something weirdly primal about the satisfaction of clean laundry. It might be the most popular girl in the high school of fragrances, even if no one really thinks about it. The smell of freshly washed linen after a bath. The feeling of climbing into bed with damp hair. Even now, clean sheets after a shower feel almost narcotic to me. Not in the glamorous, conventional sense, but in a deeply domestic, bodily way.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m a victim myself of those intellectualized niche fragrances with notes of wet concrete or burnt rubber, but the smell of freshly washed cotton belongs to an entirely different category. Warm sheets straight from the dryer. The faint scent on someone’s sweater when they hug you. Even typing it comforts me.

To me, smell is the most intriguing of the senses because it bypasses rationality altogether. Unlike sight or sound, which are processed through more analytical parts of the brain, scent travels directly to the limbic system, the area responsible for memory and emotion. Scent-evoked memories are not only more vivid than visual ones, but like proper flashbacks. Which explains why fragrance can feel like time travel.

I became aware of this long before I understood the science behind it. Certain smells still ambush me with utterly cinematic nostalgia: sunscreen on salty skin, cigarettes mixed with the stench of a smoke machine, my grandmother’s hairspray. But perhaps the most enduring one is laundry detergent, because one of my childhood memories was randomly triggered by the whiff of a stranger passing by wearing the exact same detergent my father used.

Because I believe “clean” is more than just a smell, it’s a psychological condition. There’s a certain collateral reassurance to it. It suggests that someone cared enough to wash, fold, organize. Fresh laundry smells like things are under control. When a home smells clean, the brain interprets it as safety.

Which is probably why the emotional power of laundry scent feels so relevant now, at a time when contemporary life feels overstimulating and digitally untethered. The fantasy isn’t escapism, it’s the idea of having your shit — (don’t think I can cuss so a good replacement could be life) — together.

The scent of freshly laundered fabric acts as a sensory shorthand for care. Not necessarily luxury, seduction, or individuality, but care. The kind associated with being looked after as a child, or with finally becoming capable of looking after yourself.

I love the idea of being perceived as mysterious and unapproachable, but do I always want to feel like I’m living inside a fantasy? After years dominated by loud gourmands and hyper-sexual perfumes, I understand why people increasingly want to smell… familiar. It’s mass emotional consensus, and I’m part of it after all.

Maybe that’s why clean laundry fragrances feel oddly moving. It’s the interplay between intimacy and anonymity. Everyone knows the smell, yet each person attaches it to completely different memories: a first apartment, someone else’s T-shirt after sleeping over, fresh hotel sheets.

And perhaps, in a culture obsessed with optimization and constant reinvention, familiarity has quietly become the ultimate luxury.

Author's Notes

I’m Martina Nermin De Pretto, a writer, model, and creative who professionally romanticizes cities, subcultures, and Reddit rabbit holes. Much of what I do sits somewhere between observation and performance, documenting culture while also being accidentally consumed by it. My work revolves around fashion, food, and very specific late-night references nobody asked for but everybody somehow understands. I'm interested in aesthetics as a form of emotional archaeology: strange corners of the internet, nostalgia, and finding beauty in things being a little messy. Which brings me to my rather passionate rant on scent memory. I'm deeply obsessed with fragrance, and actually my current favorite is Byredo’s De Los Santos, partly for the scent itself, partly for the bohemian mythology that seems to follow it around.

Martina’s Substack :

Forget the postcard version. Byredo’s Milan Stories steps away from predictable landmarks and fixed routes, giving space to uncompromising voices —Alessandra Pellegrino, Ana Dello Russo, Gilda Ambrosio, Giorgia Tordini and Giotto Calendoli — who know the city by instinct rather than routine. Milan reveals itself through contrast: discipline and sensuality, heritage and rupture, quiet restraint and raw energy.

IT’S NOT ABOUT WHERE TO GO IN MILAN. IT’S ABOUT HOW MILAN FEELS.

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ANNA DELLO RUSSO

Stylist and creative consultant, Anna Dello Russo is one of the most recognizable figures in contemporary fashion. Her career, rooted in editorial vision and image-making, has unfolded largely in Milan, the city she credits with shaping her discipline, work ethic, and understanding of fashion as a total experience.

Her Milan is lived through routine and intensity: a city of structure and demand, where fashion is not an accessory but a way of being, and where vision is refined through repetition and commitment.

MILAN IS The city that gave me everything. The city that allowed me to become who I am. The city I owe my identity to. Milano is fashion week, beauty, perfume. A state of ecstasy. Joy. An awakening of the eye — and of all five senses. It is deeply, viscerally tied to fashion.

MILAN IS NOT A city where you can grow old. It is not luminous. The scent of the sea, of iodine, of salt in the air. I always say: If Milan had the sea, it would be a small Bari.

If Milan had a scent, what would it be? Why?

It would smell like fashion — and the joy of living. Like beauty in motion. A kind of happiness that passes through the eyes and explodes into all five senses. An olfactory celebration, lived daily and instinctively.

What places in Milan hold memories only you know?

Via Solferino in Brera, where my very first home was. Via dell’Annunciata, the house of Franca Sozzani — a place I went to often. And Piazza Castello 27, the historic headquarters of Vogue Italia. Places loaded with personal history, ambition, and becoming — spaces where my path took shape.

What’s one place, texture, or sound that instantly brings you back to Milan, wherever you are?

A texture: a precious Roberto Cavalli embroidery from the 1990s — something that meant everything to me at the time. A sound: the bells of Santa Maria delle Grazie, where Leonardo da Vinci’s Last Supper resides. Timelessness, carried through material and sound.

What part of the city feels most like you — and why?

For me, Milan is north. From Brera to Piazza Gae Aulenti. This is my personal map: early-morning yoga schools, the swimming pool, daily movement. A quiet, disciplined geography that structures my days and gives rhythm to my life.

Do you have a ritual in Milan you never skip?

Physical activity, every single day. Swimming at 6 a.m. Yoga. This daily discipline keeps me grounded and strong. In a profession as demanding as fashion, you need immense energy and resilience. Milano gave me a deep ethical sense of work, self-care, and responsibility — and the belief that you should never miss an opportunity.

What’s a part of Milan people always get wrong?

It is still not a fully inclusive city. Certain station areas reveal a painful concentration of people with no work, no home, no support. These zones remain unresolved — difficult, fragile, and dangerous. Inclusion, acceptance, and dignity are all still work in progress

If you could gift a stranger one Milan experience, what would it be — and why?

I would take them to see The Last Supper by Leonardo da Vinci at Santa Maria delle Grazie. It is an extraordinary experience — spiritual, cultural, unforgettable.

Which place tells a better story than any museum?

The Duomo of Milan. A place of culture, prayer, and concentration. And Galleria Niccolò Occhialli, for its exceptional contemporary art exhibitions — intimate, intelligent, alive.

Name two (or more) places that define the spectrum of cool in Milan — for you.

Fondazione Prada: hyper-cool. Miuccia Prada’s vision is pure cultural generosity — a form of modern patronage. Fondazione Sozzani, founded by Carla and now carried forward by Sara, is equally essential.

If Milan was a Byredo scent, which one would it be — and why?

Bibliothèque. Absolutely perfect perfume.

Find Anna Dello Russo’s favourite scent here .

ALESSANDRA PELLEGRINO

Journalist and cultural observer, Alessandra Pellegrino approaches

Milan through continuity, attention, and everyday ritual. Her relationship with the city is shaped by long-term observation rather than spectacle, favoring depth over immediacy. Rooted in historic cafés, transitional neighborhoods,and familiar routes, her Milan reveals itself gradually — a city defined by measured gestures, understated elegance, and the quiet accumulation of memory.

MILAN IS Work, ritual, and quiet ambition. Elegance taken to its highest expression. Creativity. Energy. Discipline. Continuity.

MILAN IS NOT Love at first sight. It isn’t slow, nor nostalgic by nature. Milan is not easy sunshine. Milan is not for everyone — but to those who remain, it gives everything.

If Milan had a scent, what would it be? Why?

Milan smells like rain. Not the romantic kind, but rain hitting the asphalt hard at dawn, while I wait for the tram. A sound, a smell, a rhythm. The kind of rain I once resented and slowly learned to love.

What places in Milan hold memories only you know?

Corriere della Sera, its headquarters on Via Solferino — my first workplace. And then Plastic on Viale Umbria (sadly now closed), one of the most iconic clubs ever. It’s where I spent the most carefree, exhilarating years of my life, and where I met people who later became close friends.

What’s one place, texture, or sound that instantly brings you back to Milan, wherever you are?

The humidity of certain fog-tinged evenings. And the quiet clink of ice in a Negroni.

What part of the city feels most like you — and why?

Cinque Vie — between Via Santa Marta and Via Nerino. Narrow streets, little traffic. It feels removed from the city, yet the Duomo and the Colonne di San Lorenzo are just minutes away. Baracchino Mentana sets the summer rhythm. Behind anonymous doorways lie some of Milan’s most beautiful private homes.

Do you have a ritual in Milan you never skip?

Breakfast at Cucchi or Taveggia. Aperitivo at La Bottega del Vino “La Coloniale” on Corso Genova. And the market along the Navigli, held on the second-to-last Sunday of the month — an appointment I never miss.

If you could gift a stranger one Milan experience, what would it be — and why?

A slow walk early in the morning in Villa Necchi. Lunch at Giacomo Arengario overlooking the Duomo. Villa Necchi offers silence and proportion and Giacomo Arengario a reminder that even the city’s most iconic view can feel intimate. Milan reveals itself not through excess, but through measured gestures and quiet continuity.

Which place tells a better story than any museum?

The Prada window in the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II. Not a shop, but a point of origin.

Name two (or more) places that define the spectrum of cool in Milan — for you.

During Salone del Mobile, without a doubt, Bar Basso. And then Nilufar Depot: less noise, more intention.

If Milan was a Byredo scent, which one would it be — and why?

Mixed Emotions. It’s layered, refined, and full of character. Like Milan, it reveals more the longer you stay with it.

Find Alessandra Pellegrino’s favourite scent here.

GILDA AMBROSIO & GIORGIA TORDINI

Founders of The Attico, Gilda Ambrosio and Giorgia Tordini operate between fashion and image, developing a vision grounded in contrast, precision, and material awareness. Milan is both their creative base and daily framework — a city experienced through architecture, routine, and rhythm. Their Milan is exacting and layered, revealing itself over time through discipline, observation, and an acute sensitivity to form and atmosphere.

MILAN IS Energy. Bold. Timeless yet modern. Quiet yet powerful.

MILAN IS NOT Laziness. Ordinary.

If Milan had a scent, what would it be? Why?

GIORGIA: Milan would smell like amber and woods. I’ve always been drawn to smoky, warm notes, and that’s exactly how Milan appears to me, especially in winter. The cold air, a light fog, people wrapped in long coats. There’s something dense and understated about the city, never loud, always layered.

GILDA: Milan would smell like wet stone and cold morning air. A clean, almost metallic scent that doesn’t seduce immediately but lingers on you.

Which places in Milan hold memories that only you know about?

GIORGIA: Small, almost invisible places: entrances of buildings, inner courtyards, staircases.

GILDA: The streets walked early in the morning, half-empty gyms, bars just opening, the last table in a late-night restaurant.

Is there a place, texture, or sound that instantly brings you back to Milan?

GIORGIA: Marble and concrete. Especially the entryways designed in the 60s and 70s.

GILDA: Marble. Elegant, hard, architectural.

Which part of the city feels most like you — and why?

GIORGIA: The neighborhood where I live. I’ve changed five homes within the same area. Streets like Viale Majno, Piazza Eleonora Duse, Villa Mozart, Villa Necchi Campiglio. Elegant, quiet, suspended in time.

GILDA: Porta Venezia, because it’s contradictory and rule-free.

Do you have a ritual in Milan you never skip?

GIORGIA: During the week, routine grounds me. On weekends, I feed my eyes through exhibitions, films, new restaurants.

GILDA: Coffee, training, office. If my day doesn’t start this way, it’s going to be difficult.

What’s one thing people always misunderstand about Milan?

GIORGIA: Milan doesn’t reveal itself immediately. But once you dig, it offers extraordinary density.

GILDA: Milan may seem distrustful, but once it lets you in, it stays with you.

If you could gift a stranger one Milanese experience, what would it be?

GIORGIA: A private walk on the rooftops of the Duomo.

GILDA: Showing the city when it’s empty.

Which place tells a better story than any museum?

GIORGIA: Fondazione Prada, Massimo De Carlo Gallery, Fondazione Luigi Rovati.

GILDA: Sitting at a table and listening to people talk.

Name two (or more) places that define the spectrum of cool in Milan.

GIORGIA: The younger generations, not the map.

GILDA: Sant’Ambroeus and Fondazione Prada.

If Milan were a Byredo fragrance, which one would it be — and why?

GIORGIA: Mixed Emotions. Because Milan is full of contrasts. It’s polished and controlled, but emotionally complex. There’s always more happening beneath the surface.

GILDA: De Los Santos. Milan has a grounded, almost spiritual side. Beyond the noise, it’s about rituals, memory, and a quiet sense of depth.

Find Georgia’s favourite scent here and Gilda’s here.

GIOTTO CALENDOLI

Giotto Calendoli is a creative soul based in Milan, a true visionary in the worlds of fashion, art,and design.More like a backdrop, he experiences the city as a daily training ground, made up of work, movement, and moments of pause carved out of the intensity. His Milan is pragmatic and lived-in, built on perseverance rather than exhibition. His work is characterized by a unique blend of minimalism and maximalism.

MILAN IS Fast. Money talking. International. Fast.

MILAN IS NOT Sunday. Seaside.

If Milan had a scent, what would it be? Why?

It would smell like laundry, in the middle of ironing freshly washed shirts. Steamed cotton.

What places in Milan hold memories only you know?

The ones I don’t talk about or photograph. Because when Milan is truly yours, it stays private.

What’s one place, texture, or sound that instantly brings you back to Milan, wherever you are?

Construction noise, and tram tracks.

What part of the city feels most like you—and why?

Brera and Corso Magenta. Places that, to me, manage to slow down the city’s chaos. Where art and Italian architectural identity create a sense of pause. And sometimes, that pause means immersing myself in Italian beauty.

Do you have a ritual (food, place, activity, journey) in Milan you never skip?

Tell us the story behind it. Most of the time, I prefer cooking at home. I enjoy it, and it’s something I know how to do well. In Milan, one ritual I never skip is Sunday pizza. Da Michele, the historic Neapolitan pizzeria in the Repubblica area, has become a fixed point for me.

Beyond that, Milan offers an incredible variety of cuisines, especially when it comes to Asia. For sushi, I often go to Osaka near Corso Garibaldi. I also love Château Dufan in the Sarpi–Chinatown area, where I enjoy both eating and shopping for Asian ingredients.

And when I crave a good amatriciana, I head to Rugantino near the Colonne di San Lorenzo. It’s a beautiful area to walk through, eventually leading down towards the Navigli, where I like to browse vintage shops.

What’s a part of Milan people always get wrong? What’s the real story for you?

People often say Milan is too fast. But choosing Milan means choosing to test yourself to see how trained you are to keep up. I’ve been living here for 15 years, and if you had asked me back then, I wouldn’t have bet a single euro on it. But time is like Milan: it moves fast. In its speed, Milan shapes you. It makes you forget about time because you’re too busy doing.

If you could gift a stranger one Milan experience, what would it be — and why?

Canoeing on the Navigli in spring, at dawn, while the sun rises. The city is still asleep. Because I like doing things differently.

Which place (gallery, alley, window, anything) tells a better story than any museum?

I often go to Hangar Bicocca. As a space, I believe it’s one of the most impressive locations in the city. I also really like the Triennale, where the exhibitions are always thoughtfully curated and consistently interesting.

Name two (or more) places that define the spectrum of cool in Milan — for you.

I would say Bar Basso, Colonne di San Lorenzo, and Brera.

Bar Basso is an institution of Milano da bere and the Milanese aperitivo culture. – Colonne is one of my favorite areas to bike through, shop, and enjoy good street food. – Brera offers a different pace — Sunday walks through the markets, a visit to the Pinacoteca, and time in the Orto Botanico.

That balance defines Milan’s spectrum of cool for me.

If Milan was a Byredo scent, which one would it be — and why?

As I said before, for me it would be cotton shirt. That’s why my choice is Blanche.

Find Giotto Calendoli’s favourite scent here.

SEE & DO

BASILICA DI SANTA MARIA DELLE GRAZIE

Church

Via Giuseppe Antonio Sassi, 3, 20123 Milano

Recommended by: Anna Dello Russo

Renaissance stillness and Leonardo’s Last Supper.

BRERA

Historic district

20121 Milano

Recommended by: Anna Dello Russo, Giotto Calendoli

Courtyards and ateliers. A slower rhythm within the city.

CINQUE VIE

Historic district

20123 Milano

Recommended by: Alessandra Pellegrino

Narrow streets and Milan in quiet layers

COLONNE DI SAN LORENZO

Historic landmark

Corso di Porta Ticinese, 20123 Milano

Recommended by: Giotto Calendoli

Roman ruins turned contemporary meeting point.

CORRIERE DELLA SERA

Editorial headquarters

Via Solferino, 28, 20121 Milano

Recommended by: Alessandra Pellegrino

A place of rigor and formation.

DUOMO DI MILANO

Cathedral

Piazza del Duomo, 20122 Milano

Recommended by: Anna Dello Russo, Giorgia Tordini

Vertical, intricate, absolute.

FONDAZIONE LUIGI ROVATI

Museum & foundation

Corso Venezia, 52, 20121 Milano

Recommended by: Giorgia Tordini

Archaeology and contemporary art in measured dialogue.

FONDAZIONE PRADA

Contemporary art foundation

Largo Isarco, 2, 20139 Milano

Recommended by: Anna Dello Russo, Giorgia Tordini, Gilda Ambrosio

Industrial architecture transformed into a cultural platform.

HANGAR BICOCCA

Contemporary art space

Via Chiese, 2, 20126 Milano

Recommended by: Giotto Calendoli

Monumental installations in industrial silence.

NAVIGLI

Canal district

20143 Milano

Recommended by: Alessandra Pellegrino, Giotto Calendoli

Water, markets, dawn walks.

ORTO BOTANICO DI BRERA

Botanical garden

Via Brera, 28, 20121 Milano

Recommended by: Giotto Calendoli

A green pause in the historic center.

PINACOTECA DI BRERA

Museum

Via Brera, 28, 20121 Milano

Recommended by: Giotto Calendoli

Foundational masterpieces in measured light.

PLASTIC

Nightclub (permanently closed)

Viale Umbria, 120, 20135 Milano

Recommended by: Alessandra Pellegrino

An underground myth of excess and freedom.

TRIENNALE MILANO

Cultural institution

Viale Emilio Alemagna, 6, 20121 Milano

Recommended by: Giotto Calendoli

Design, architecture and contemporary thought.

VILLA MOZART

Historic residence

Via Mozart, 9, 20122 Milano

Recommended by: Gilda Ambrosio, Giorgia Tordini

Architectural refinement and quiet.

VILLA NECCHI CAMPIGLIO

House museum

Via Mozart, 14, 20122 Milano

Recommended by: Alessandra Pellegrino, Giorgia Tordini

Rationalist clarity, light and proportion.

FONDAZIONE SOZZANI

Cultural space

Via Tazzoli, 3, 20154 Milano

Recommended by: Anna Dello Russo

Photography and fashion as a curated experience.

GALLERIA MASSIMO DE CARLO

Art gallery

Piazza Belgioioso, 2, 20121 Milano

Recommended by: Giorgia Tordini

International artistic research and conceptual vision.

GALLERIA NICCOLÒ OCCHIALI

Art gallery

Via della Spiga, 1, 20121 Milano

Recommended by: Anna Dello Russo

An intimate space with a contemporary focus.

NILUFAR DEPOT

Design gallery

Viale Lancetti, 34, 20158 Milano

Recommended by: Alessandra Pellegrino

Large-scale design with a strong curatorial identity.

WAIT AND SEE

Concept store

Via Santa Marta, 14, 20123 Milano

Recommended by: Alessandra Pellegrino

Independent fashion with a

Milanese eye.

THIS IS MILAN, AS SEEN BY THE PEOPLE WHO LIVE IT.

CURATED BY BYREDO AND ITS CURATORS.

Photographs: Marc Shelly, unless otherwise credited

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