resort investments will generate profits, where shops will sell
phytoceuticals (hinoki bath oil, anyone?) and where people will be
able to return to their schools and offices more productive than when
they left.
I glimpsed this hybrid future at a resort called Healience. Upon
arriving at the bucolic setting near the Saneum Forest, I was handed a
purple jumpsuit to wear during my stay, part Miraval, part Sing Sing.
I joined others wearing these suits as we scrambled over barefoot
forest-walking trails, waited for massages and bused our cafeteria
trays. The lobby shop was a shrine to hinoki, selling atomizing
humidifiers and artfully packaged glycerine soaps. I ended up with a
tube of phytoncide toothpaste. It tasted like gnashing a holiday wreath
between your molars. That’s not what gave me pause about putting it
in my mouth. I was having a hard time getting past the fact that
phytoncide is basically pesticide. There’s nothing coy about the name.
“Cide” means “kill.” I pictured ants crawling up the trees and dying in
twisted, tortured poses while sending farewell signals to their loved
ones. At the very least it seems like the place could benefit from some
rebranding. Do we really want to brush with the stuff and hike on
“phytoncide trails?” I was also, to be honest, skeptical of the whole
aromatherapy thing because its primary adherents, at least in the
United States, also lean toward crystal worship and misshapen
footwear.
But the real story with these compounds is both more complicated
and more interesting. In the quest to find out what exactly it is about
nature that meshes with our minds, smells emerge as an undersung
but powerful component. Visuals tend to get all the acclaim, but as
Proust knew, nothing hits the brain’s emotional neurons more
powerfully than odor. Scents immediately enter the primal brain,
where the amygdala is waiting to command a fight-or-flight response.
The emotional amygdala is highly wired to the hippocampus, where
memories are stored. A keen sense of smell was critical as we sought