Oh my God. I’m getting older. I’ve begun to notice the pre-shadows of wrinkles and my knees feel different. Before I know it, I’ll be reading books with oversized print, wearing orthopedic shoes, and having my grandson interview me for his homework on what it was like to be part of the YouTube generation.
Ok, so not really. But Friday night taught me a depressing lesson—the difference between 19 and 25 is enormous. Huge. Oh man, it makes me nauseous.
Headed out on Friday night with an old friend who was in Paris for the weekend from Brussels. Nice to have an out-of-tower around…always gives you the opportunity to go to new places or check things out your local friends aren’t down for. We started off with dinner at OHLALA!, which from its location and pictures seemed like one of those casual boho places that’s a bit overpriced because it sells cool more than anything else. Turns out, place is full on swankytown. The menu didn’t even have prices on it. It’s always hard to make exact comparisons of places in Paris to New York, but this place felt like it had been plucked out of the Meatpacking district—buttoned-up shirt banker types getting bottle service and acting loud and cocky to impress a bunch of girls with blond, flat-ironed hair. Good food, though.
Dying to get away from Ohlala’s oppressive chicness, we headed over to Le Pop In, a bar I used to love when I was a student. I had discovered it more towards the end of my junior year abroad, and was pissed that I had. Finally! I had thought. Here are where all the hipsters and cute boys are.
Oh no, I thought, when I saw the packed interior and crowd outside who looked like they were auditioning for America’s Next Top Hipster. Wedged into the only free spot in the bar, we awkwardly stood there drinking our bubbly beers with our coats still on. As I surveyed the room, I found myself thinking, Man, these are exactly the types of boys I would have loved when I was 21. Wait - what? Did I just “reminisce about my youth”? Ohmygod, I did.
I leaned over to yell into my friend’s ear: “Hey, is it just me…or do you feel like we’re the oldest people here?”
She nodded and laughed. “Ahhh! We’re old!”
I watched a skinny boy with pretty eyes, crazy hair, scruff and a leather jacket, guessed he was 22, and thought about how back in the day, that was the age I was after…I wanted a guy just a bit older, maybe more like 24 or 25. In situations like these, being on the younger side always seemed like an advantage—an ego boost to lost (or just apathetic) souls who, even though they were such losers, were inherently more accomplished and seductive just for having lived a few years longer.
“Dude,” I announced to my friend, “The average age here has to be…what…21?”
“Eh…I mean probably more like 24 or 25, but we’re on the higher end,” she said as a trio of girls pushed passed us and sloshed drops of beer on us for the fourth time that night.
“I can’t believe I used to like it here…this is just…this place fucking sucks.”
A guy from the crowd leans over and yells something to me: “EXCUSE ME! EXCUSE ME! ARE YOU OLDAH?”
“WHAT??? OLDER???”
“ARE YOU OLGA???”
“OH NO I’M NOT OLGA.” Older, though, apparently.
Don’t call it a fannypack. Because those are for grannies and ironic hipsters. It’s a “waist bag,” at least that’s what Shopbop is calling them. That could fly for this more elegant Felix Rey purse. As for the traditional Le Sportsac numbers that pioneered the trend? Yup, those are waist bags, too.
Unbelievable. Just back from the bank. I didn’t freaking pass my own signature test.
So, I don’t know about you, but I happen to sign things a bit differently in different situations. Like, for example, if you have to sign for a Fed Ex delivery, I’m not going to make sure my signature is pretty, but more like a rushed scribble. I tend to do this on most receipts too. Maybe on an official document, I’ll take more care. But they’re all the same general shape with the same nuances. So apparently, when the postman came to my door with my “proof I live here” card, I did my signature shorthand. Oh no this does not fly here.
To digress for a moment, I’d just like to say that I’m incredibly tolerant of the famously nonsensical ways of French bureaucracy. I don’t get angry, and when processes are ridiculous, I accept that that’s way things are. No complaining. When I tried to get my tax stamps reimbursed from the error on my carte de séjour, I didn’t spend the day crying and moaning because the tabac where I bought them told me I had to go to a the trésor publique in the 2nd arrondissement, where they told me to go to the building in the 15th, where they told me to go back to the préfecture in the 11th. (Side note: if you need some 55 Euro ones, I’ll sell them to you for less.) I don’t talk loudly because the French think Americans talk to loud. I make sure to always say bonjour when entering a store, merci, au revoir, bon soirée, bon soir, bon journée.
So. Mr. Bank asks me to sign above on the card. His female colleague watches on. I sign exactly like it is. Oh no no no. That is not the same as how you signed on your account documents. I compare the two. The only difference is that the L of Leonora is bigger and E of Epstein is slightly larger. Then he has me try to replicate that one. It’s not good enough. Finally, I lost my cool (well, as much as Little Leo does). “Seriously?! I really don’t know what to tell you. All of these are me. What, do you want the postman to come and take a picture of me signing? Or what - maybe I have a personality disorder where I have different signatures? I’m sorry, but you just saw me do this 5 times.”
Mr. Bank is surprised that I raised my voice-his eyebrows raise.
Female colleague in expected French bitchyness: “You know, this isn’t the United States where anything goes. In France we do things differently, and you have to do—”
I ugh audibly.
Mr. Bank: “Okay, okay. Look,” he says in a way that is trying to get me to cool down. “I am just going to take care of this. I’ll figure it out and call you later. Your card will be ready Tuesday.”
Haha! Damn straight, la banque.
“teenage love” - magic wands
this song is badass. and yeah, so is this picture. [high fives self]
SO HOT.
Really? Really?! So it has been…maybe a month or more since I opened my French bank account. It took about a week to set it all up, but the tricky part has been getting my debit card. I STILL do not have it. I have been stopping by the bank once or twice a week now to check in on it and my only answer is “it’s not ready.” Today, this was getting to be ridiculous. I just got a phone call from my favorite mysogynistic bank representative who told me why…
He had sent this official letter to verify that I live where I do. The postman would come, and I would sign a document, and then the postman would send it back to the bank. This went smoothly (again, over two weeks ago). On the phone he says, “You didn’t sign it.”
“Si si! I signed it! I told you…the postman came, I signed the thing.”
“Was it really you who signed?”
“I don’t understand…I just said I signed the paper…”
“It wasn’t accepted because the signature doesn’t match what’s on your passport.”
What? What does my signature on my passport look like? OH. Oh my God. The loopy cursive that I inscribed when I was 15 years old?! No joke, there is a heart as a dot above the i. Man, they let you have passports for a long time before they expire.
“Ohhhhhh. Mais, sorry but I wrote that when I was 15. I don’t think at 15 I had an official signature…it’s the handwriting of a teenager.” I didn’t mean to be so rude about this…but c’mon…I had signed about a gabillion documents for the bank in the past few weeks. In the presence of Mr. Representative. I even remember him COMMENTING on this.
So now, tomorrow, I must go in to pass the signature test. And in theory…I should be armed with a carte bleue on Tuesday.
On the hunt for holiday dress/look. Obsessed with the idea of a long sleeved mini-dress that has a high neckline, slight boatline. Then to pair with booties and clutch. French Connection black dress - general shape is close…would like something with a bit of sparkle, just not over the top like this gold Paul & Joe number.
I would like to preface this post by saying that I have just eaten an entire baguette.
Now, for a little examination of the famous French diet, popularized in more recent years by the book French Women Don’t Get Fat, in which author Mirelle Guiliano explains how French ladies “don’t get fat, but they do eat bread and pastry, drink wine, and regularly enjoy three-course meals.” Add on to that that there is no “real” exercise included in this lifestyle. Sounds appealing, non? In a nutshell Guiliano’s answer is this—you eat small amounts of great foods, drink lots of water, eat yogurt if you’re hungry, walk, indulge in chocolate, eat moderate amounts of bread. Uh, really?
Let’s examine the unsaid (and of course you’re thinking it because of cultural stereotypes): French women eat like birds, smoke, and have no muscle tone (but slender) bodies because they don’t workout. Oh.
When I lived in Paris as a student, I had many talks about diet with my French host mother, who liked to believe she was an expert. (Well, she liked to believe she was an expert in anything, as most French people like to do.) She told me you could either choose to eat bread and sugar, but to not combine it with butter and fats and heavier things (but a little bit of cheese at the end of the day is ok, she said). Or, you choose to eat fatty things with very very small amounts of bread. Somehow that year I got fat. Although I think it had something more to do with re-introducing carbs into my diet after a crazy stint on Atkins. Fatkins.
And here’s my take: French women don’t get fat because they don’t get fat. Genetics, baby. The boys are like beanstalks, the girls are naturally flat-chested. As a fellow expat friend pointed out to me last night, “I can’t buy a bra in France. They start as AA and stop at a B-cup,” she said sticking out her prominent bosom. My own busty boobs nodded in agreement.
I definitely live the FWDGF diet, not so much consciously, but because I enjoy it and I like playing into the Parisian culture…in the end, it feels both wildly unhealthy and weirdly sensible. I basically don’t eat vegetables anymore. While carbs used to scare the shit out of me, I now don’t give a shit and a typical day starts off with a cafe and croissant or a large piece of baguette with butter and jam. Lunch is generally light—a bit of baguette with cheese, maybe some ham, or some salad. Although a few times a week I see a friend for lunch and take something like a croque monsieur or falafel. Dinner, if I’m cooking at home is something like pasta with a sautee of sorts I make up, wine. If I’m going out for dinner, a hearty meat dish, wine. But aside from breakfast, I follow the French Woman diet…eating small portions, and usually leaving things on my plate. Eat until you’re just satisfied. I don’t exercise anymore, whereas in the States I ran a few times a week or did yoga. I do walk quite a bit most days.
So is this a way to get thin? Um, I’m going to say eating a croissant a day, even if you’re keeping your calorie intake lower, isn’t going to do you much good. I know that if I really followed Ms. Guiliano’s regime, I’d probably gain quite a bit of weight, but I know to just keep my calorie intake a little lower if I’m going to be eating foods I know my body doesn’t traditionally respond well to—like cheese, bread, and sugar. Have I lost weight since I’ve been here? Well…not quite. I actually thought I had been when I realized the other day that all my jeans were sagging around the butt. Then I realized that they’ve just gotten all stretched out because I have no dryer. Damn. But I think I’ve pretty much maintained my weight. But I could very easily gain some on a similar regime (just knowing my body). I’ve come to believe that French women are born with a genetic makeup that gives a slim physique, and if anything, this “sensible” lifestyle they live isn’t going to pack on the pounds. It will just keep them normal. Lucky.
The police having swimming practice in the Seine. Yes. Those two little spots next to the boat are guys swimming in Paris’s lovely river. Unfortunately, my camera was out of batteries when I spotted this this morning…so I held up my lappy to the window. This reminds me of that episode in Seinfeld where Kramer starts swimming in the Hudson, and begins to smell disgusting…I have to think of the wives of those poor lads. “Honey…I’m home! Gimme a kiss!” “Mais non! Tu pues!”
Glass eyes: the next big thing. Kelley and I are prepping for our new careers as trend forecasters.
Fashion will consume you—window display I spotted on Avenue Montaigne last week. (The Frisky)
Agricultural Map of France/late 19th century
via travellinglight
Finishing out the day at Cafe Charlot.
Rosebud Salve is one of those beauty products that has an almost scary cult following of real addicts. Seriously, I’ve seen girls apply this stuff with the same intensity, urgency, and frequency of heavy smokers.
Unfortunately, finding this all-purpose lip balm in Paris proves difficult. After searching Sephoras throughout the cities as well as pharmacies carrying international products, I found it at, of all places, American Apparel on Rue du Temple in the 4th. The 4 euro tins are in the display case near the register. Unfortunately, I think I got the last one…stock seemed pretty low. There are, however, five other AA locations in Paris.
(Photo: Drugstore.com/Laobserved.com)
Dana sings...
And Dana sings some more.
Fa-shun.
Audrey Hepburn, '60s cover
Not weird.
Fight club. Or modern dance.
I’ve been a bad blogger. Or something. Or maybe my life is actually kind of busy these days, so I haven’t been good about posting. So here’s a little slideshow of what I’ve been up to.
This might be my favorite out of all the Vogue covers at the little installation on the Champs-Elysées.
