In those first few days, I just walked. It was December 1994, and I had to leave for California to visit my mother for Christmas, so in the week or two I had, I walked the city, looking for something but it was something vague. I was looking for oud, denh al oud, bottles of which I had brought from Yemen. My idea was a business that had something to do with Arabic perfumes and I wanted to see what was out there. I had no idea about business. I knew nothing about accounting, bookkeeping, renting a store, hiring employees, nothing. I had no idea what it would cost, if it would be feasible. So I slept on Patricia's couch and walked all day, every day, through every neighborhood, looking for Arabic perfume.
My first stop, the first day, was Brooklyn. I had heard there was a Yemeni quarter there, near the intersection of Court Street and Atlantic Avenue and I wanted to try out my reception, to eat some ful (a bean dish,) maybe to chew some qat, but mostly just to make contact and see what happened.
I found a luncheonette that looked Yemeni, filled with men shouting and laughing in Arabic, eating lamb stew and salta and licking their greasy fingers. A self serve tea urn stood in the corner. No menu. No women. You couldn't see in the windows, they were filthy. Posters of Yemen on the walls. I was delighted and walked in what I hoped was a confident way to the back while everyone pretended not to notice me. I asked if they served ful, and was told yes, of course, and then asked if they had qat for sale. Of course no one had ever heard of this. Qat? What was I talking about? But I knew they had it. After spending this time in Yemen I realized that where Yemenis are, there is also qat, and so they must have it and the more innocent they were the more convinced I was.
Laughing, I said that I'd just come from Yemen and that I chewed qat every day and so I knew they must have it and of course they did.
Qat was much in the spotlight in those days; the Americans had just retreated in humiliation from Mogadishu, and everyone was trying to digest the image of our dead and dying soldiers being dragged through the streets. There was much talk of "technicals," the groups of over-armed young men in mirrored sunglasses, chewing qat as they patrolled the lawless Mogadishu streets packed into jeeps, looking for an excuse for violence. So there was some interest from the media and the Yemenis were wary. In those days qat was flown in twice a week--once from Addis Ababa and once from Sana'a.
But as always, the Yemenis were friendly and hospitable. And just because the Somali techinicals were chewing qat didn't mean that qat caused their violence, any more than cigarettes did.
I spent a fair amount of time in Brooklyn in the beginning, both that December and the Following February, when I came back to New York to find an apartment.
I carried a backpack full of perfumes from Yemen and maybe because it was completely ridiculous, I managed to sell a few of them to the Yemenis. Not that I sold enough to make a living, but I sold enough to keep my hand in, so to speak.
Meanwhile, I continued to walk the city streets.
One day I found myself in Soho and drifted into an emporium on West Broadway where there were plenty of little stalls and booths, selling jewelry, clothes, music, chinese trinkets, and Egyptian knickknacks..
The owner of the Egyptian shop, Abdul, was very interested in taking on a partner. So interested, in fact, that he proposed this to me at our second meeting.
This seemed to be really good luck. I could bring in my own perfumes and bottles and whatever else I wanted, and I would work there or we would split the cost of an employee 50/50.
Abdul was eager to get rid of this little booth and pay more attention to his Deli, which was actually making money. The less he had to do with the albatross in Soho, the happier he was.
So less than a month after arriving in New York, not only had I found a roomy studio apartment in Midtown, but I was moved into a tiny store, with all my disorganized perfumes and bottles, and incense and odd things. It was a nice safety cushion--Abdul was still the owner, and responsible. I had just bought myself some breathing time to figure out how I was to proceed.
Saturday, April 29, 2006
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
To New York
To New York
When I left Cairo I was still ostensibly headed to Vancouver. A friend had suggested I make a quick stop to visit another friend in New York. New York certainly wasn't a favourite city; I used to come here occasionally with my father in the late 70s/early 80s and I didn't like it. It was too threatening. He was in the theatre business so we mostly stayed around Times Square and the Theatre District and were out late every night. I remember shadowy figures lurking behind the mounds of trash, theatre security guards making sure we got in the cab okay, the hotel security walking with us through the dark and deserted Midtown streets to the Carnegie deli. An elderly man with a trick knee, and a young girl: we were vulernable and I felt it. It was the first time I guess that I felt that even being with my father. I didn't care for New York. Never thought about visiting it. The thought of living here never flitted across my mind.
I left 5 big boxes at Kennedy airport and took the train to my friend's apartment on the Upper West Side.
In the morning I went outside and skipped over to Columbus. It was a magnificent December day, cool, crisp, clean blue sky, the sunlight glittering on the skyscrapers. It smelled so good; like coffee, croissants, cologne, roasting nuts, fruits and flowers from the delis I passed, christmas trees, a thousand cuisines, out of every doorway wafted something new.
I trotted toward midtown, down Broadway. The city sparkled. It was so clean and pretty. And huge towering office buildings; it took my breath away. Everyone smiled at me. The men were incredibly handsome in their black cashmere coats; the women impossibly glamourous and chic. And every couple of blocks Egyptians with their shwarma carts, broadcasting Friday prayers on the radio, friendly and happy to chat. They were my touchstones to reality in those first couple of days-a reminder that I wasn't dreaming this.
The city greeted me all day. The restaurants were full of people having exciting conversations, impossible looking meals, gorgeously presented.
The stores were full of exquisite things, each different, so much more than I could imagine! The textures, the sumptuous fabrics, the endless variety! It was all so rich, so vibrant, so exciting in every way. I felt as though I'd come to the nerve center of the world, the heart of civilization, and of course I had.
I wandered throughout the day, up one street and down another, along the avenues, talking to everyone, eating from the Egyptian carts, laughing with people. I was hooked, it was love at first sight as this was the first time I had seen New York like this. I didn't even remember Vancouver. There was no question I would stay here. As I walked through New York in those first days I felt caressed, enveloped in its sweetness, engaged, challenged and stimulated. I was in love and it completely consumed me.
I had come home.
When I left Cairo I was still ostensibly headed to Vancouver. A friend had suggested I make a quick stop to visit another friend in New York. New York certainly wasn't a favourite city; I used to come here occasionally with my father in the late 70s/early 80s and I didn't like it. It was too threatening. He was in the theatre business so we mostly stayed around Times Square and the Theatre District and were out late every night. I remember shadowy figures lurking behind the mounds of trash, theatre security guards making sure we got in the cab okay, the hotel security walking with us through the dark and deserted Midtown streets to the Carnegie deli. An elderly man with a trick knee, and a young girl: we were vulernable and I felt it. It was the first time I guess that I felt that even being with my father. I didn't care for New York. Never thought about visiting it. The thought of living here never flitted across my mind.
I left 5 big boxes at Kennedy airport and took the train to my friend's apartment on the Upper West Side.
In the morning I went outside and skipped over to Columbus. It was a magnificent December day, cool, crisp, clean blue sky, the sunlight glittering on the skyscrapers. It smelled so good; like coffee, croissants, cologne, roasting nuts, fruits and flowers from the delis I passed, christmas trees, a thousand cuisines, out of every doorway wafted something new.
I trotted toward midtown, down Broadway. The city sparkled. It was so clean and pretty. And huge towering office buildings; it took my breath away. Everyone smiled at me. The men were incredibly handsome in their black cashmere coats; the women impossibly glamourous and chic. And every couple of blocks Egyptians with their shwarma carts, broadcasting Friday prayers on the radio, friendly and happy to chat. They were my touchstones to reality in those first couple of days-a reminder that I wasn't dreaming this.
The city greeted me all day. The restaurants were full of people having exciting conversations, impossible looking meals, gorgeously presented.
The stores were full of exquisite things, each different, so much more than I could imagine! The textures, the sumptuous fabrics, the endless variety! It was all so rich, so vibrant, so exciting in every way. I felt as though I'd come to the nerve center of the world, the heart of civilization, and of course I had.
I wandered throughout the day, up one street and down another, along the avenues, talking to everyone, eating from the Egyptian carts, laughing with people. I was hooked, it was love at first sight as this was the first time I had seen New York like this. I didn't even remember Vancouver. There was no question I would stay here. As I walked through New York in those first days I felt caressed, enveloped in its sweetness, engaged, challenged and stimulated. I was in love and it completely consumed me.
I had come home.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Cairo
I moved into my little African hotel in Attaba square and wandered the city for days. It took some getting used to, as I had come from Bangkok, which seemed to be more modern, or maybe just more western. I hadn't been to Cairo in years, and the constant attention from men, the women wearing hijab, the chaos, came as a shock. There was nowhere to rest, the merest pause in my walk would bring someone's voice in my ear, everywhere I looked men tried to get my attention. It was exhausting. After a couple of weeks I bought a plane ticket to Sana'a, got my visa and left for Yemen.
Yemen was just finishing up its 1994 civil war, with the country uneasily reunited once again, the Socialists losing in their bid to reestablish a separate southern State. Yemen is a very independent country, rabidly so. It doesn't even like to be ruled by Yemen. The northern parts are mostly tribal, and the rule of law is largely local; acknowledgement of the federal government is varied and negotiable.
Most of the foreigners had been evacuated during the war, or had left of their own accord and I was apparantly one of the first to come back to Sana'a. I was the only guest for weeks at the fabulous Sendbad hotel, now no more than a memory. In an old tower house in the old city, near the gate of Bab Shoub, in Al Zumar. I lived in the "zih rah," the tiny room sometimes found above the mafraj (qat chewing and guest entertaining room.) It was barely 6 ft x 6 ft and all sides were windowed--the 6th floor view of old Sana'a and the surrounding desert and mountians was magnificent.
Here I settled into a routine, wandering in the souk every morning after breakfast, drinking tea and chatting with my neighbours; and chewing qat most afternoons, usually at someone's house or in the back of a store. Sleep was always in short supply--qat keeps the nerves alert and outside noises, whether dogs barking or a passing motorbike, was enough to keep me laying there, wide-eyed, until the dawn call to prayer.
I pestered every incense merchant, every perfumer, and anyone else who wanted to chat, about Yemeni aromatics. I spent a ridiculous amount of time in the apothecary quarter, pestering my friend Mohammed about this oil or that resin and how it is used and why and when.
Occacionally other foreigners would turn up--a German film crew, an American insect specialist, Syrian poets.....but for the most part I wandered freely in the old city, the only tourist. Everyone was especially nice because of this. There I was, wandering around alone, trying very hard to speak Arabic, enjoying qat, smoking the mada'a (waterpipe,) learning about the local aromatics, and laughing all the time. So I was treated very well, even for Yemen, which is known for its fabulous hospitality.
I made a couple of small journeys--to Hodeidah and Tai'iz to see my perfumer friend. I was advised not to go to Aden, as there were still "some problems" there. Travel was easy. Permits and travel documents were no longer required. All I did was present myself at the taxi stand and state my destination. I was brought to the waiting car and ushered into the front seat. The cars were usually Peugeot station wagons, which seat 9 not including the driver. So I always had to buy 2 seats so I didn't sit next to a strange man (this is the custom,) but travel was quite cheap so this was not a problem and I rode in exquisite comfort with the entire front seat to myself and a view of the world. I was plagued with help and assistance--water, qat, cigarettes, snacks, everytime we stopped I was told to remain in the car (this was meant as a kindness,) and things were brought to me--oranges, tea, qat, bread, biscuits, more qat, another bottle of water, more tea....Thanks as well as payment waved off dismissively--I was not to worry about this, this was the Yemeni way of doing things, this was their pleasure, I was their guest, etc.
Once in Tai'iz I found a hotel and wandered the hilly streets near the market entrance looking for the perfume shop I had last entered in 1989, 5 years before.
After trying a few shops, including one where the proprieter said he was my friends brother and that he (my friend,) was no longer in business, having decided to work in the civil sector but he would be happy to help find whatever I needed, I found the right one! My goodness, Mr Ghailan was surprised! I still had an old aluminum dehn al oud bottle he had given me--I had inhaled its vapour for 5 years. Dehn al oud is a kind of oud surrogate--it's cheap and plentiful and smells vaguely of oud (agarwood.) It probably has a bit of oud mixed in but I think it is mostly synthetic. In any case, this is all I knew of agarwood at this point and the dehn al oud smell was snough to keep me interested for 5 years and draw me back to Yemen like a lasso.
So here I was, back for more! I plunked myself down and we had some tea and talked.
I stayed a little while in Tai'iz and dicussed my upcoming business plans with him. We chewed qat and talked about perfumes. I stayed in a nearby hotel. Apprenticing him didn't seem like the answer any more but he helped me a lot--he showed me some basics of perfume blending and some of what is considered sublime in the Arab world. I do love Tai'iz; it's friendly and lively. It's also spectacular--cascarding down the foothills of Jebel Saber.
I also went to Hodeidah during this trip and found a perfumery that didn't mind my pesky questions. I met a woman in this place--she was delivering akhdreen (a mind blowing erotic sensual hair perfume) that she made in her home in a village about 20 km from Hodeidah. I bought everything I could, everything she had, more than I could carry. And spent the rest of the time with the guys from the perfumery, drinking tea, shouting, laughing, chain smoking, and finally driving like maniacs out onto a sandbar at the end of the earth looking for crabs and fish. I also want to mention that it was in Hodeidah that I saw a guy with a real peg leg. There were plenty of sailors around, drinking tea and laughing--Hodeidah was still on the map so to speak. I did love it, despite the heat--the city can be an inferno--and its complete decrepitude.
In all I stayed in Yemen about 5 weeks. When I returned to Cairo a different city greeted me. Just as I had found Cairo a particular way after coming from Bangkok, coming from Yemen was a different story. It was so cosmopolitan! The people so elegant! Women uncovered, so chic! Such handsome men! And so many shoe stores! And everyone was hilarious, so friendly, laughing constantly, the noise was incredible! (Yemen was also friendly and fun, but being in Cairo was like living in a cartoon.)
I stayed in Cairo a long time--a couple months at least. I adapted very quickly to my new city and decided to have hundreds of glass blown prefume bottles made. I think that this was actually the idea of someone I was spending some time with, but it was well presented and provided a reason to keep my future comfortably vague. I stayed in Attaba Square and spent much of the time sitting around, laughing, arguing, eating, drinking tea and playing cards in a local tea house. Every so often, I would take my own space by going over to the Nile Hilton and sit unmolested on their patio with my waterpipe and some tea.
I found my perceptions challenged constantly--here is an example. I had a friend whose house I often went to for dinner and would stay late into the night with him and his parents. My hotel was about 10-15 minutes walk away. He walked me back to my hotel one time only and the next time not--he said goodbye at the end of the passageway. I was in a huff immediately--I didn't want to walk through the nearly deserted Cairo streets at midnight alone! I'm a woman! In a dress! No headscarf! But he explained and then I saw--it was precisely because of this that I was safe. There were soldiers on duty along the streets, but not in groups. Therefore no one spoke to me. All day long it was a different story, but at night I was free to go on my way. As Mohammed put it: "No one will dare to talk to you." and it was true. On the other hand, he was a different story. If caught out alone late, especially after being seen walking an American woman around, he faced harassment and possible arrest. It was me who provided security for him! Not the opposite! I found this to be the case the whole time I was in Cairo. The type of behavior considered ok in daylight was not acceptable at night and this was good as it would have been uncomfortable anyway, and there were always policemen in the periphery.
Having these bottles made was a challenge--promises were made several times a day, and changed just as often. Dramas erupted constantly. I spent many hours sitting with my friends in the local souq, the Khan-al-Khalili, a very old and huge market, watching how they did business. This was probably one reason why I didn't find New York too intimidating later. But the bottles tested the limits of my patience and when I finally left late one night for my midnight flight to America, we were all still in chaos, the taxi bumping along the rutted lanes of the market as the last of the bottles were hurridly packed into boxes, some still warm.
Yemen was just finishing up its 1994 civil war, with the country uneasily reunited once again, the Socialists losing in their bid to reestablish a separate southern State. Yemen is a very independent country, rabidly so. It doesn't even like to be ruled by Yemen. The northern parts are mostly tribal, and the rule of law is largely local; acknowledgement of the federal government is varied and negotiable.
Most of the foreigners had been evacuated during the war, or had left of their own accord and I was apparantly one of the first to come back to Sana'a. I was the only guest for weeks at the fabulous Sendbad hotel, now no more than a memory. In an old tower house in the old city, near the gate of Bab Shoub, in Al Zumar. I lived in the "zih rah," the tiny room sometimes found above the mafraj (qat chewing and guest entertaining room.) It was barely 6 ft x 6 ft and all sides were windowed--the 6th floor view of old Sana'a and the surrounding desert and mountians was magnificent.
Here I settled into a routine, wandering in the souk every morning after breakfast, drinking tea and chatting with my neighbours; and chewing qat most afternoons, usually at someone's house or in the back of a store. Sleep was always in short supply--qat keeps the nerves alert and outside noises, whether dogs barking or a passing motorbike, was enough to keep me laying there, wide-eyed, until the dawn call to prayer.
I pestered every incense merchant, every perfumer, and anyone else who wanted to chat, about Yemeni aromatics. I spent a ridiculous amount of time in the apothecary quarter, pestering my friend Mohammed about this oil or that resin and how it is used and why and when.
Occacionally other foreigners would turn up--a German film crew, an American insect specialist, Syrian poets.....but for the most part I wandered freely in the old city, the only tourist. Everyone was especially nice because of this. There I was, wandering around alone, trying very hard to speak Arabic, enjoying qat, smoking the mada'a (waterpipe,) learning about the local aromatics, and laughing all the time. So I was treated very well, even for Yemen, which is known for its fabulous hospitality.
I made a couple of small journeys--to Hodeidah and Tai'iz to see my perfumer friend. I was advised not to go to Aden, as there were still "some problems" there. Travel was easy. Permits and travel documents were no longer required. All I did was present myself at the taxi stand and state my destination. I was brought to the waiting car and ushered into the front seat. The cars were usually Peugeot station wagons, which seat 9 not including the driver. So I always had to buy 2 seats so I didn't sit next to a strange man (this is the custom,) but travel was quite cheap so this was not a problem and I rode in exquisite comfort with the entire front seat to myself and a view of the world. I was plagued with help and assistance--water, qat, cigarettes, snacks, everytime we stopped I was told to remain in the car (this was meant as a kindness,) and things were brought to me--oranges, tea, qat, bread, biscuits, more qat, another bottle of water, more tea....Thanks as well as payment waved off dismissively--I was not to worry about this, this was the Yemeni way of doing things, this was their pleasure, I was their guest, etc.
Once in Tai'iz I found a hotel and wandered the hilly streets near the market entrance looking for the perfume shop I had last entered in 1989, 5 years before.
After trying a few shops, including one where the proprieter said he was my friends brother and that he (my friend,) was no longer in business, having decided to work in the civil sector but he would be happy to help find whatever I needed, I found the right one! My goodness, Mr Ghailan was surprised! I still had an old aluminum dehn al oud bottle he had given me--I had inhaled its vapour for 5 years. Dehn al oud is a kind of oud surrogate--it's cheap and plentiful and smells vaguely of oud (agarwood.) It probably has a bit of oud mixed in but I think it is mostly synthetic. In any case, this is all I knew of agarwood at this point and the dehn al oud smell was snough to keep me interested for 5 years and draw me back to Yemen like a lasso.
So here I was, back for more! I plunked myself down and we had some tea and talked.
I stayed a little while in Tai'iz and dicussed my upcoming business plans with him. We chewed qat and talked about perfumes. I stayed in a nearby hotel. Apprenticing him didn't seem like the answer any more but he helped me a lot--he showed me some basics of perfume blending and some of what is considered sublime in the Arab world. I do love Tai'iz; it's friendly and lively. It's also spectacular--cascarding down the foothills of Jebel Saber.
I also went to Hodeidah during this trip and found a perfumery that didn't mind my pesky questions. I met a woman in this place--she was delivering akhdreen (a mind blowing erotic sensual hair perfume) that she made in her home in a village about 20 km from Hodeidah. I bought everything I could, everything she had, more than I could carry. And spent the rest of the time with the guys from the perfumery, drinking tea, shouting, laughing, chain smoking, and finally driving like maniacs out onto a sandbar at the end of the earth looking for crabs and fish. I also want to mention that it was in Hodeidah that I saw a guy with a real peg leg. There were plenty of sailors around, drinking tea and laughing--Hodeidah was still on the map so to speak. I did love it, despite the heat--the city can be an inferno--and its complete decrepitude.
In all I stayed in Yemen about 5 weeks. When I returned to Cairo a different city greeted me. Just as I had found Cairo a particular way after coming from Bangkok, coming from Yemen was a different story. It was so cosmopolitan! The people so elegant! Women uncovered, so chic! Such handsome men! And so many shoe stores! And everyone was hilarious, so friendly, laughing constantly, the noise was incredible! (Yemen was also friendly and fun, but being in Cairo was like living in a cartoon.)
I stayed in Cairo a long time--a couple months at least. I adapted very quickly to my new city and decided to have hundreds of glass blown prefume bottles made. I think that this was actually the idea of someone I was spending some time with, but it was well presented and provided a reason to keep my future comfortably vague. I stayed in Attaba Square and spent much of the time sitting around, laughing, arguing, eating, drinking tea and playing cards in a local tea house. Every so often, I would take my own space by going over to the Nile Hilton and sit unmolested on their patio with my waterpipe and some tea.
I found my perceptions challenged constantly--here is an example. I had a friend whose house I often went to for dinner and would stay late into the night with him and his parents. My hotel was about 10-15 minutes walk away. He walked me back to my hotel one time only and the next time not--he said goodbye at the end of the passageway. I was in a huff immediately--I didn't want to walk through the nearly deserted Cairo streets at midnight alone! I'm a woman! In a dress! No headscarf! But he explained and then I saw--it was precisely because of this that I was safe. There were soldiers on duty along the streets, but not in groups. Therefore no one spoke to me. All day long it was a different story, but at night I was free to go on my way. As Mohammed put it: "No one will dare to talk to you." and it was true. On the other hand, he was a different story. If caught out alone late, especially after being seen walking an American woman around, he faced harassment and possible arrest. It was me who provided security for him! Not the opposite! I found this to be the case the whole time I was in Cairo. The type of behavior considered ok in daylight was not acceptable at night and this was good as it would have been uncomfortable anyway, and there were always policemen in the periphery.
Having these bottles made was a challenge--promises were made several times a day, and changed just as often. Dramas erupted constantly. I spent many hours sitting with my friends in the local souq, the Khan-al-Khalili, a very old and huge market, watching how they did business. This was probably one reason why I didn't find New York too intimidating later. But the bottles tested the limits of my patience and when I finally left late one night for my midnight flight to America, we were all still in chaos, the taxi bumping along the rutted lanes of the market as the last of the bottles were hurridly packed into boxes, some still warm.
Saturday, April 08, 2006
This is me
My name is Trygve and I own Enfleurage, an aromatherapy shop in New York City. We've existed since 1997 on Bleecker Street in the Village. This is apparantly a long time even though it seems like a mere blip. Originally conceived as a vortex for odd aromatics from around the world, Enfleurage has become mainly about essential oils although incense and fun gifty things are also present as is any odd aromatic I can find while nosing about the planet.
I do travel a lot--and bring in most of our essential oils directly from the distillers. Our specialty is agarwood and I've written a couple of articles about it which you can find here:
http://www.enfleurage.com/articles.html
Read on for a more in-depth (or overly chatty, depending on your point of view,) bio.
Before Enfleurage
As a mere tot in California I loved those head shops in the 70s-with the bottles of "China Musk Essential Oil" and Night Queen Primo Incense. Didn't really know too much about the "head" part until the end of the decade but I sure did love to smother myself in lotus fragrance oil and any exotic musky thing I could find. This was in Santa Barbara, mainly, when it was still a normal beach town full of surfers and skaters, when late at night the street sweeper rode a giant paper mache nose to suck up litter and there were always hitchhikers at the freeway lights with signs for San Francisco.
I was a skater, fortunate enough to be tolerated by the older skaters as I was local and did my best to be cool. As anyone with interest in the 1970s skateboard scene will know, Montecito (near Santa Barbara and now mostly aromping ground for the ultra rich) was well known for its great hills and abandoned reservoirs in the mountains. I had a long hardwood Sims board. Sometimes someone would show up with a truck and everyone would skate down Riven Rock and Hot Springs and then we'd get a ride back up the hill to Mountain Drive. We'd do this all day. If there was no one with a truck or van we'd just hitchhike back up. So I started hitchhiking when I was about 9. In those days you could ride in pick up truck beds and even sit on the edges. Sometimes I rode on the hood. Different world, I know. So there I was, perfect picture of California childhood in the 70's--flipflops in my back pockets, reeking of china musk, skating barefoot and trying to be as cool as the teenage boys who lived in my neighborhood and drove cars.
As time passed life changed, except hitchhiking and the perfume oils.
When I was 19 I left and went to Vancouver Canada to live. I had already lived away from my parents on and off since I was 11 or so, between camps, schools, and that sort of thing. This was very normal and trendy in the late 70s-early 80s, at least in California. So moving to Canada was not really too big a deal. I wanted to leave California really badly and completely. All throughout these years I worked in the normal type of jobs that kids work in--restaurants, factories, department store, delivery, etc. In Vancouver I was quite drawn to the punk scene, which was very interesting and lively in the early 80s. Still had my perfume oils and incense. Hitchhiked everywhere.
In 1984 I made my first trip abroad without my parents (we went to Europe once.) Once my Eurail pass ran out I hitchhiked --Holland, West Germany, France, etc. The world was opening up. I had had no idea that one could just put on a backpack, and zip around Europe, country to country, and do it really cheaply, and sleep outside or in youth hostels or on apartment roofs or wherever, and eat whatever, wherever. Sometimes the people who picked me up would take me home and feed me and put me to bed on the couch or in their daughter's room--hitchhiking was considered a normal thing for young people to do. Hitchhiking had given me the taste of independence as a child and now it taught me freedom. My trip stretched out into 6 months--I went to East Germany, Poland and Israel/Gaza, and back to Holland to work at an Amsterdam Youth Hostel. The world opened--eastern Europe was Soviet, Israel and Gaza were far different than I had been brought up to believe, and I realized that almost everything most people had told me was wrong and this made me very happy. So I was now out in the world. I returned to Canada and the next year I went to India and Nepal; again completely ignorantly and utterly unprepared--as usual with nothing but divine grace keeping me alive.
I did hitchhike in India, but only a little; it's very difficult as it's not part of the culture so when you ask where is the road to Pushkar you will be directed to the bus station. But the buses and trains are interesting. Hitched in Nepal though. The towns are small and the roads managable. In Kathmandu I used to sit with a little band and sing every night. I now know this was my first taste of Kirtan, chanting the divine name, something that I still do whenever I can. I was away about 7 months I think and I met a woman who wandered around India and Thailand with a sack of amber resin. Her name was Wanda and she was an American who hadn't been back to the US for 16 years. She just walked around Asia or took a bus, and sold chunks of this fabulous sweet exotic resin thing that seemed to be alive--if left alone for long periods or in the cold it would grow crystals and fuzz. You just rubbed it on and it was an aphrodesiac and it made you dance naked down the beach (I met her in Goa.)
I returned to North America with the travel bug under my skin like a Guinea worm. And I had plenty of amber from Wanda so I started selling this stuff on the street in Vancouver--$10 a gram and I had a little balance to weigh it out. People thought it was hash. But it was very cool. I didn't sell too much but I did sell some and this kept my hand in.
During the next ten years I spent a lot of time in the US, Mexico and Guatemala, shuttling back and forth, hitchhiking and freight train hopping through Mexico on the long commute. Tried selling amber in Mexico City. Made some other shorter trips too. One of those was to the Middle East in 1989. Originally we meant to fly to Cairo and take the Nile south through Sudan to Uganda but my British friend had visa problems. Americans still were loved in those days. So while waiting for the Sudanese embassy to issue him a visa we flew to Yemen which was actually North Yemen in those days. This was my first exposure to Arabic aromatics. In Taiz I met a perfumer who showed me ridiculous things--hair perfume, agarwood oil, Yemeni incense for scenting the clothes. We spent a couple of weeks in Yemen, returning to Cairo only to find no Sudanese visas. And after Yemen we had lost interest in the ancient sites along the Nile and so hitchhiked from Suez through the Sinai, now completely overrun with young westerners smoking pot and listening to Pink Floyd, so different from the deserted place I had camped in in 1984. We kept on to Jordan, overhearing that Iraq had opened to tourists since the Iran-Iraq war had ended. That was actually called 'The Gulf War" since it was fought in and around the Persian/Arabian Gulf. Does anybody remember that? We took a taxi to Iraq and spent about 2 weeks there too--Kurdistan, the marshes, Samarra, Babylon, Baghdad, the place was electric with tension and paranoia. After fleeing back to Amman we decided to get a "West Bank Permit." There was no border between Jordan and Israel but instead of interpreting this to mean one couldn't cross, we just got permits to visit occupied Jerusalem and once there, of course we were in Israel. We visited some of the major West Bank towns--Hebron, Ramallah, Nablus to see what was really going on with the Intifada and then Gaza.
I realized traveling is like the air to me--I need to breathe it. The road was always my sanctuary, things were always ok there. Any problems that arise--at least they are new problems and can usually be remedied easier than the huge important stuff. I slept well, if lightly, and my heart was at ease while moving. I felt choked when my surroundings became too familiar. Even though I was loathe to leave anywhere I was comfortable I suppose the pain of leaving was intoxicating as well. I said goodbye to so many people--I never understood how to not do this, I just kept going. Maybe it made life richer as everything was temporary, and not just in the cosmic sense! I always had that amber with me though.
In 1992 my father and grandmother died--they were the cornerstones of my idea of stability--something I had in my head. My mother sold the family home in Montecito and we went off into the world, ending up in Southeast Asia, when she left and went home to wander in California. I had no idea what to do--here I was in Bangkok by myself and half of my family was dead. It didn't feel the same--I was sad, lonely and directionless. So I bought a one-way ticket to Phnom Phen figuring a couple of weeks in Cambodia would straighten me out. The road is the greatest healer--it's reliable and quicker than time.
The Khmer Rouge were still fighting. Pushed back into the jungle, they still mounted the occasional attack. I sat alone in the mist at Angkor lstening to the gentle clang of cowbells and far off artillery. I hitchhiked to Saigon. This was 1994. Then up Vietnam to Hanoi with someone I met. It took 6 weeks. We went to Laos and back to Thailand. I went back to Laos--through the north, up the Mekong, and a tributary, the Nam Ou to the end of possible navigation and walked over a mountain to Phongsali, near Yunnan. I spent about a month in Laos before finding myself sitting on a jar on the Plain of Jars, and the idea of a store specializing in exotic aromatics came to me. I would open it in Vancouver and after nearly 5 months my trip had meaning. I decided that I would make my way back to Yemen and apprentice the perfumer in Taiz and then go to Vancouver and see what happened. It's important to mention that I knew nothing about business. I knew nothing about accounting. I knew next to nothing about aromatics. I didn't have the kind of capital one needs to invest in a new business. All I knew was that I would do this thing.
So I went back to Bangkok and bought a ticket to Cairo.
My name is Trygve and I own Enfleurage, an aromatherapy shop in New York City. We've existed since 1997 on Bleecker Street in the Village. This is apparantly a long time even though it seems like a mere blip. Originally conceived as a vortex for odd aromatics from around the world, Enfleurage has become mainly about essential oils although incense and fun gifty things are also present as is any odd aromatic I can find while nosing about the planet.
I do travel a lot--and bring in most of our essential oils directly from the distillers. Our specialty is agarwood and I've written a couple of articles about it which you can find here:
http://www.enfleurage.com/articles.html
Read on for a more in-depth (or overly chatty, depending on your point of view,) bio.
Before Enfleurage
As a mere tot in California I loved those head shops in the 70s-with the bottles of "China Musk Essential Oil" and Night Queen Primo Incense. Didn't really know too much about the "head" part until the end of the decade but I sure did love to smother myself in lotus fragrance oil and any exotic musky thing I could find. This was in Santa Barbara, mainly, when it was still a normal beach town full of surfers and skaters, when late at night the street sweeper rode a giant paper mache nose to suck up litter and there were always hitchhikers at the freeway lights with signs for San Francisco.
I was a skater, fortunate enough to be tolerated by the older skaters as I was local and did my best to be cool. As anyone with interest in the 1970s skateboard scene will know, Montecito (near Santa Barbara and now mostly aromping ground for the ultra rich) was well known for its great hills and abandoned reservoirs in the mountains. I had a long hardwood Sims board. Sometimes someone would show up with a truck and everyone would skate down Riven Rock and Hot Springs and then we'd get a ride back up the hill to Mountain Drive. We'd do this all day. If there was no one with a truck or van we'd just hitchhike back up. So I started hitchhiking when I was about 9. In those days you could ride in pick up truck beds and even sit on the edges. Sometimes I rode on the hood. Different world, I know. So there I was, perfect picture of California childhood in the 70's--flipflops in my back pockets, reeking of china musk, skating barefoot and trying to be as cool as the teenage boys who lived in my neighborhood and drove cars.
As time passed life changed, except hitchhiking and the perfume oils.
When I was 19 I left and went to Vancouver Canada to live. I had already lived away from my parents on and off since I was 11 or so, between camps, schools, and that sort of thing. This was very normal and trendy in the late 70s-early 80s, at least in California. So moving to Canada was not really too big a deal. I wanted to leave California really badly and completely. All throughout these years I worked in the normal type of jobs that kids work in--restaurants, factories, department store, delivery, etc. In Vancouver I was quite drawn to the punk scene, which was very interesting and lively in the early 80s. Still had my perfume oils and incense. Hitchhiked everywhere.
In 1984 I made my first trip abroad without my parents (we went to Europe once.) Once my Eurail pass ran out I hitchhiked --Holland, West Germany, France, etc. The world was opening up. I had had no idea that one could just put on a backpack, and zip around Europe, country to country, and do it really cheaply, and sleep outside or in youth hostels or on apartment roofs or wherever, and eat whatever, wherever. Sometimes the people who picked me up would take me home and feed me and put me to bed on the couch or in their daughter's room--hitchhiking was considered a normal thing for young people to do. Hitchhiking had given me the taste of independence as a child and now it taught me freedom. My trip stretched out into 6 months--I went to East Germany, Poland and Israel/Gaza, and back to Holland to work at an Amsterdam Youth Hostel. The world opened--eastern Europe was Soviet, Israel and Gaza were far different than I had been brought up to believe, and I realized that almost everything most people had told me was wrong and this made me very happy. So I was now out in the world. I returned to Canada and the next year I went to India and Nepal; again completely ignorantly and utterly unprepared--as usual with nothing but divine grace keeping me alive.
I did hitchhike in India, but only a little; it's very difficult as it's not part of the culture so when you ask where is the road to Pushkar you will be directed to the bus station. But the buses and trains are interesting. Hitched in Nepal though. The towns are small and the roads managable. In Kathmandu I used to sit with a little band and sing every night. I now know this was my first taste of Kirtan, chanting the divine name, something that I still do whenever I can. I was away about 7 months I think and I met a woman who wandered around India and Thailand with a sack of amber resin. Her name was Wanda and she was an American who hadn't been back to the US for 16 years. She just walked around Asia or took a bus, and sold chunks of this fabulous sweet exotic resin thing that seemed to be alive--if left alone for long periods or in the cold it would grow crystals and fuzz. You just rubbed it on and it was an aphrodesiac and it made you dance naked down the beach (I met her in Goa.)
I returned to North America with the travel bug under my skin like a Guinea worm. And I had plenty of amber from Wanda so I started selling this stuff on the street in Vancouver--$10 a gram and I had a little balance to weigh it out. People thought it was hash. But it was very cool. I didn't sell too much but I did sell some and this kept my hand in.
During the next ten years I spent a lot of time in the US, Mexico and Guatemala, shuttling back and forth, hitchhiking and freight train hopping through Mexico on the long commute. Tried selling amber in Mexico City. Made some other shorter trips too. One of those was to the Middle East in 1989. Originally we meant to fly to Cairo and take the Nile south through Sudan to Uganda but my British friend had visa problems. Americans still were loved in those days. So while waiting for the Sudanese embassy to issue him a visa we flew to Yemen which was actually North Yemen in those days. This was my first exposure to Arabic aromatics. In Taiz I met a perfumer who showed me ridiculous things--hair perfume, agarwood oil, Yemeni incense for scenting the clothes. We spent a couple of weeks in Yemen, returning to Cairo only to find no Sudanese visas. And after Yemen we had lost interest in the ancient sites along the Nile and so hitchhiked from Suez through the Sinai, now completely overrun with young westerners smoking pot and listening to Pink Floyd, so different from the deserted place I had camped in in 1984. We kept on to Jordan, overhearing that Iraq had opened to tourists since the Iran-Iraq war had ended. That was actually called 'The Gulf War" since it was fought in and around the Persian/Arabian Gulf. Does anybody remember that? We took a taxi to Iraq and spent about 2 weeks there too--Kurdistan, the marshes, Samarra, Babylon, Baghdad, the place was electric with tension and paranoia. After fleeing back to Amman we decided to get a "West Bank Permit." There was no border between Jordan and Israel but instead of interpreting this to mean one couldn't cross, we just got permits to visit occupied Jerusalem and once there, of course we were in Israel. We visited some of the major West Bank towns--Hebron, Ramallah, Nablus to see what was really going on with the Intifada and then Gaza.
I realized traveling is like the air to me--I need to breathe it. The road was always my sanctuary, things were always ok there. Any problems that arise--at least they are new problems and can usually be remedied easier than the huge important stuff. I slept well, if lightly, and my heart was at ease while moving. I felt choked when my surroundings became too familiar. Even though I was loathe to leave anywhere I was comfortable I suppose the pain of leaving was intoxicating as well. I said goodbye to so many people--I never understood how to not do this, I just kept going. Maybe it made life richer as everything was temporary, and not just in the cosmic sense! I always had that amber with me though.
In 1992 my father and grandmother died--they were the cornerstones of my idea of stability--something I had in my head. My mother sold the family home in Montecito and we went off into the world, ending up in Southeast Asia, when she left and went home to wander in California. I had no idea what to do--here I was in Bangkok by myself and half of my family was dead. It didn't feel the same--I was sad, lonely and directionless. So I bought a one-way ticket to Phnom Phen figuring a couple of weeks in Cambodia would straighten me out. The road is the greatest healer--it's reliable and quicker than time.
The Khmer Rouge were still fighting. Pushed back into the jungle, they still mounted the occasional attack. I sat alone in the mist at Angkor lstening to the gentle clang of cowbells and far off artillery. I hitchhiked to Saigon. This was 1994. Then up Vietnam to Hanoi with someone I met. It took 6 weeks. We went to Laos and back to Thailand. I went back to Laos--through the north, up the Mekong, and a tributary, the Nam Ou to the end of possible navigation and walked over a mountain to Phongsali, near Yunnan. I spent about a month in Laos before finding myself sitting on a jar on the Plain of Jars, and the idea of a store specializing in exotic aromatics came to me. I would open it in Vancouver and after nearly 5 months my trip had meaning. I decided that I would make my way back to Yemen and apprentice the perfumer in Taiz and then go to Vancouver and see what happened. It's important to mention that I knew nothing about business. I knew nothing about accounting. I knew next to nothing about aromatics. I didn't have the kind of capital one needs to invest in a new business. All I knew was that I would do this thing.
So I went back to Bangkok and bought a ticket to Cairo.
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