I’d barely settled into the Irish countryside—with its cold morning showers (I was too impatient to wait for the pay-per-kilowatt water heater), the reek of sheep-tending, the buzzing bee skips, the feel of soft, gentle rain and the pitch darkness at night save for the full moons—then I was off to perform classical guitar at Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris, when its ancient walls still carried its centuries-old patina of candle soot.  This was long before Emily in Paris, before Instagram, before smartphones. I traveled by ferry from Dublin to Holyhead, Wales, by rail to London, changed at Victoria Station for Dover, then caught the overnight service through Le Havre to Paris, all under the looming threat of a railway strike in France. 

I have distinct memories of that train ride etched in my mind; the rush to obtain a train ticket in Le Havre with seconds to spare, then settling into a compartment where tension crackled thanks to two loud, brash young men—one from London, one American, both in their early twenties like me. Both debated world affairs with increasing fervor as they worked through bottle after bottle of ale.  They clanked their empties noisily inside the bag hanging off the back seat until its netting bulged and sagged.  A faintly yeasty, hoppy odor filled the car as their contentiousness lost steam, and they drifted off to sleep.

As we approached the city of Rouen, the view outside my window caused me to sit up, startled by what I saw—a roommate once described it as looking remarkably like Sausalito, California, where her family settled from France.  I never thought I’d see this in my lifetime, even if it was just a fleeting glimpse! 

Hypervigilance and curiosity were no match for the lull of train tracks, clicketty-clack, clicketty-clack, clicketty-clack, especially after the rush of travel.  Imagine succumbing to drowsiness with one cheek pressed stuporously against the cool glass train window, consciousness ebbing and flowing as twilight lifts ever so subtly.

Unforgettably, between five and a quarter to six in the morning, as the sky released its hold of the night, it seemed as if the sun’s emerging rays had singularly leavened all the bakery goods of Paris for how the most deliciously heady fragrance of freshly baked croissants seemed to rise from every corner of the city, reaching our train before we’d even arrived at Gare Saint-Lazare.  So rich you could almost taste it.  So warm, it felt as if you could eat the buttery brightness of sunlight.  That was how Paris welcomed me, and it’s the scent I’ve tried to capture—a rapturous fragrance that reflects all the hope of a new dawn shining over one of the world’s most glamorous cities. 

Paris 5 A.M. is an unabashed gourmand’s dream, featuring the quintessential Parisian breakfast.  The fragrance opens with facets of butter-rich pastry, whispers of almond, vanilla and tonka bean, all grounded in soft resins and amber that create an almost tactile quality with a sophisticated dry down—a golden warmth you can almost hear crackle akin to how a croissant’s crispy, almond-flecked, flaky exterior gives way at first bite to a buttery soft interior.  It’s all of Paris at 5 AM emerging from its slumber, preparing to start anew.  Never mind the city’s famed l’heure bleue. Paris 5 AM speaks of the golden hour, l’heure d’or, which launches your day with the comforting scent of this luxurious, decadent and utterly classic treat.