Against a field of sunflowers beneath a cloudless July sky, a nun in a starched white habit stands alone at a sunny bus-stop on the edge of Aix-en-Provence, grinding a single lavender blossom into the palm of her hand with a thumb. The fragrance of lavender surrounds you with the softness of a sparrow.
At a factory in Grasse, the scent starts sweetly enough: snipped stalks of lavender stand in grids, stuck into vats of perfume-grade fat. The first wave of nausea is swift and violent. The cramping only gets worse and never gives birth to a satisfying vomit. An Orangina is no solace.