Giorgia

Her name is Giorgia. She ignites in the sun’s rays but can never be caught. A little wild and always radiant, Giorgia was born somewhere between a row of lemon trees off the Amalfi coast and a beach in the Bay of Angels.

Her fragrance varies from day to day. Madagascan vanilla when the great classics are on her mind, strawberry when flirting with nostalgia and gianduja for ultimate pleasure. Mango for wanderlust, passion fruit for soft hearts and coffee for endless nights. Giorgia doesn’t need to speak loudly to be noticed, even though she’s perfectly capable of it, like every self-respecting southern girl. She has sun-kissed skin, bearing the traces of sea spray and days spent outside.

Her nonchalant and laid-back demeanour are characteristic of the French Riviera. She loves the start of summer, the re-found joy of going out bare-legged, the lazy pace of endless days and memories that stick to the palate and to the eyes. In some ways, Giorgia is all of the women here. Between the seasons, between sea and light, she walks with indulgence in her smile and the calm strength of a woman who knows where she comes from. As summer draws near, she is making a return. Like always. Fresher than ever before. With all eyes on her, she leaves a sweet trail in her wake, like an almost forgotten childhood flavour. Giorgia cannot be possessed.

She is savoured. In tiny spoonfuls. In her own way. And never the same way twice.