Cedrare is not citrus in a garden—it’s citrus on concrete. Cracked pavement. Neon. A scent that smells like Berlin at 7 PM, or maybe 4 AM—you’re not sure. You’ve lost track of time, but the energy hasn’t dropped. Neither has your heartbeat.

Inspired by Le Labo’s Cédrat 37, Cedrare captures that electric moment between grit and elegance. That beautiful contradiction cities like Berlin are built on. A place where opposites coexist: raw and refined, past and future, a symphony of stone and soul. Cedrare doesn’t try to tidy that up. It lets it all live—loud, soft, real.

It kicks off with citron—not just citrus. Citron is citrus that’s been sharpened. Drier. Wilder. Less fruit, more peel. More punch. Like biting into something sunlit and slightly dangerous. It cuts through the air like a shout in a gallery. Clean but never innocent.

And then—ginger. Not powdered, not polite. This is fresh, firecracker ginger. Shaved and still biting. It fizzes in your nose, tickles the back of your throat, rushes to your head like the first sip of cold gin at a rooftop bar in Kreuzberg. It turns the citron into something vertical—spiky, sparkling, alive.

But then the city starts to cool, and so does the scent.

Musk moves in. Warm. Breathable. Not soapy or sterile—more like a lived-in cotton shirt clinging to skin after hours in motion. You catch it only when the wind changes or someone leans too close. It’s intimate, not performative. Berlin doesn’t perform either—it just is.

Woods follow, dry and grounding. Not a forest—more like a wooden table in an old record store, scuffed but beautiful. Or maybe the scent of dusted books in an East Berlin apartment filled with art and old vinyl. The woods in Cedrare don’t say “nature.” They say “character.”

And then, finally, the city exhales: ambergris. Marine, mineral, a little dirty, a little divine. It doesn’t shout. It hums. It softens the structure of the scent and adds skin-like warmth, like the afterglow of something that felt real.

Cedrare doesn’t evolve—it pulses. Citrus, ginger, musk, amber, and Berlin—all dancing in and out of each other’s way, like light and shadow between buildings. It’s not one thing. It’s a hundred fleeting things that somehow make sense together.

Not citrus for vacation. Citrus for the night.
Not scent for everyone. Scent for the ones who stay out just a little longer than planned.
Not fresh. Fresh with an opinion.