an ode to love

 

On rare occasion I am left to my own devices in ‘the city of lights’. Not nearly as much fun to run wild amidst these serene, cobbled streets as in the cacophonous, never-ending avenues of ‘the city that never sleeps’. Or perhaps I have lost that desire to run, and I was never in fact so wild. On such nights when my love is far away, in the company of a glass (or two) of wine and a good camembert, I reflect on the single life I left behind. The endless girls’ nights which left me feeling somewhat pensive but mostly empowered, the numerous dates that left me longing for another girls’ night, and the many unique experiences that never left me. It is these many years of living alone, struggling to find purpose in a single existence without allowing work to dominate (the challenge of most single women in NYC), understanding that there comes a time for everything, that I moved so gracefully from single into double. Simply, I was ready. And in patience and faith, love, in the form of this dear creature with whom I now share my life, had come to ‘rescue’ me, as he playfully calls our chance encounter. Perhaps we rescued each other, just in time to confirm that true love still does exist. (Even I being a hopeful romantic was beginning to have doubts). And now, I can sit in a place I call home, in the quiet of my own breath and feel completely at peace. Happy to be alone for a brief moment, just long enough to appreciate the sensation of love and long for it’s return.

the look of a Parisian

French women always look stylish, even more so in the midst of fashion week. In an attempt to discover their secrets (as surely they would never divulge such privileged information), I decided to consult the mannequins, leading me to carouse almost every boutique in the Marais. This was not an exercise in shopping (though each week the prices are falling and temptation is rising), but more of a research project, in which I would occasionally purchase a select piece that will remain in my (French) closet for years to come. This is no easy task. The art of looking ‘Parisian’. Upon leaving NYC my dear stylist friend Evelyn, to whom I am forever grateful, assisted me in project ‘Pack for Paris’. I only allowed myself two (very large) suitcases, did I really need more than that? (I traveled around the world for 13 months with only one bag, after all). Together we strategically selected what I would be wearing in this fashion capital, on those occasional evenings to the Opera, frequent dinners at trendy bistros, imagined strolls along the boulevards, but most importantly what I would need to feel stylishly comfortable in my new life. With expert cajoling, I bid adieu to half of my wardrobe, unworn tunics from India, my favorite faded shorts custom tailored in Hoi An, vintage coats from Portobello Market. I dressed as many friends as I could and donated the rest. In the end, this proved a great lesson in detachment and the art of minimalism.

Now, five months into my life in Paris, I am attempting to understand the French fashion culture. Faced with the blank stares of stylish mannequins luring me into their windows I ask myself, where is Evelyn when I need her? Admittedly, I buy much less and appreciate each addition to my wardrobe much more. I am no doubt a classicist, revering the creations of Givenchy, Chanel, YSL, Pucci, to name a few. If only this were the Paris of the 1960’s, fashionably speaking! Alas, in this fashion forward era, I continue to admire elegance and simplicity with a personal twist. The ever changing fashion trends intrigue, but seldom appeal. There exists much more inspiration in the unique living and breathing ‘models’ walking the streets of Paris, than behind the store windows.  My ‘chic et branché’ look now consists of Petit Bateau T-shirts mixed with classic couture. And black will always be the new black. (I am a New Yorker after all!) In conclusion, what I have learned through this exercise in observation is the following: simplicity paired with very carefully selected accessories makes the greatest statement, and ALWAYS wear a scarf!

lessons learned in French class…

I am learning much more in my French class than the seemingly endless conjugations of irregular verbs. Namely, the geographical locations and vivid descriptions of ‘les DOM-TOM’, the French islands scattered within the world’s oceans. (Perhaps in Martinique there’s an extensive French program and I could add Creole to my language skills?) My last assignment, as the gods of fate would have it, was to write a travel article on NYC, ‘la ville extraordinaire!’. Needless to say I became very passionate about accurately depicting a place I know so well.

The greatest lessons learned are in observation of the many foreign lives each trying to make sense in a language not their own. One classmate in particular left an impression on me. This woman from Houston, Texas, with husband and kids in tow, decided to leave a very settled life and spend one year in Paris. Simply because she and her husband noticed how spoiled their children had become and decided it necessary to expand their outlook of the world while enhancing their appreciation of ‘home’. This was no easy task, uprooting three girls aged 2, 11 and 17, attending French schools, adjusting to a new culture (one which is not the most accepting of outsiders I might add). I applaud her for such a daring and challenging move. I am certain her children, at least the older girls, will learn valuable life lessons on this path less taken.

la baguette

The baguette symbolizes France. It is universally recognized as a staple of the French diet, regarded as a simple and essential part of the complex food culture. The baguette is derived from the bread first baked in Vienna in the middle of the 19th century. Steam ovens had begun to be used, enabling loaves to be baked with a crisp crust and the white center. In 1920 a law was passed preventing bakers from working before 4am, making it impossible to bake the traditional loaf in time. Thus, the longer, thinner baguette was created, in time for the customers’ breakfasts. Voilà!

Ah, to sit beneath the Eiffel tower with a fresh baguette in hand, accompanied by a creamy camembert and a bottle of Bordeaux. (Cliché is a French word after all!) I prefer to indulge in this tradition of bread, sitting on the Seine accompanied by the light of an early spring evening, a fresh chevre and fig confit. Or simply walking down the street chewing on the end of a baguette, French style. These days I have weaned myself off of the ‘one baguette a day’ rule, not so easy for my Italian I must say! We are having quite a delectable adventure exploring the over 28 various baked delights found in close to 1,260 boulangeries lining the streets of Paris. Thus far I have tasted of 27…

how to dream in French

The days are growing longer. On rare occasion a hint of spring passes through the still frigid air. I remain warm within my expansive thoughts. I am in the midst of redefining myself in the context of a French life. Did I think it would be this difficult to leave behind the comforts and familiarities of a city which had become my home for over a decade? To bid farewell to my old self who knew so much and so many and made such an intimidating city feel so intimate? I recall so well the first few years of NYC, the growing pains involved in assembling the many pieces that create a life. And here in Paris, the puzzle appears much more difficult to piece together. Mostly due to the fact that the instructions are illegible. I remain perplexed as to how exactly things and people function here. The extreme formality and sense of order do not always appeal to me. Even the vagabonds seem well-mannered. Perhaps I am accustomed to a greater diversity that cannot be defined. A place where possibilities are endless and nothing is impossible. Once upon a time I was taught to dream. And now? As I attempt to redefine myself, an American girl raised with European sensibilities, I feel more American than I ever did in the USA, and even more so a dreamer. Simply, I must now learn to dream in French.

SOLDES!

The word on the streets is SOLDES. All of Paris is on sale. Apparently this is quite an event, happening only twice a year, as regulated by the government. The sales continue for five weeks, a Winter cleansing of sorts, in preparation for the new Spring styles. Finally I can shop in this fashion capital! Prior to these seemingly never-ending sales, I merely stared glossy-eyed into the windows of the many boutiques lining the streets of the Marais and Saint-Germain. The price tags in the windows often prevented me from entering, considering the less than ideal exchange rate. Why tease myself? I would look, but dared not to touch. And now, prices are almost equivalent to those in my favorite Nolita or Soho boutiques in NYC. Somehow the ‘Made in France’ label makes shopping in Paris more of a cultural experience. Might I even consider the additions to my wardrobe an investment?

1 … 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 … 112