‘Its name gives the clue. Orange tree in Spanish Arabic. There you are, standing on a Moroccan roof. An exquisite coolness wafts up, chasing the clinging heat of the day. The curtains move lazily in the breeze. Shadows of orange trees stretch in the setting sun. On the skin… a delicious orange blossom, cooled by an overdose of petitgrain and tangerine, then becoming soft vanilla marshmallow. Deceptively innocent, it craves transgression, addiction, and sweet follies.’ – Voyages Imaginaires
