tales of a twentysomething

Older? What? Olga?

Mon, 09 Nov 2009 10:17:00 -0500

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...

Fri, 06 Nov 2009 09:57:07 -0500

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.

your signature signature

Fri, 06 Nov 2009 04:36:00 -0500

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.

littlekhole: “teenage love” - magic wands this song is badass....

Thu, 05 Nov 2009 16:22:39 -0500

littlekhole:

“teenage love” - magic wands

this song is badass. and yeah, so is this picture. [high fives self]

SO HOT.

Oh la banque, la banque...

Thu, 05 Nov 2009 09:04:17 -0500

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...

Thu, 05 Nov 2009 07:25:10 -0500

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.

French Women Don't Get Fat; American Women In France Do

Thu, 05 Nov 2009 04:21:00 -0500

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...

Thu, 05 Nov 2009 03:27:00 -0500

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...

Fri, 30 Oct 2009 12:33:37 -0400

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...

Thu, 29 Oct 2009 06:39:49 -0400

Fashion will consume you—window display I spotted on Avenue Montaigne last week. (The Frisky)

littlekhole: Agricultural Map of France/late 19th...

Mon, 26 Oct 2009 12:06:05 -0400

littlekhole:

Agricultural Map of France/late 19th century

Maison Deyrolle

via travellinglight

Finishing out the day at Cafe Charlot.

Wed, 21 Oct 2009 13:36:45 -0400

Finishing out the day at Cafe Charlot.

Where to Buy Rosebud Salve in Paris

Wed, 21 Oct 2009 09:34:46 -0400

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)

I’ve been a bad blogger. Or something. Or maybe my life is...

Wed, 21 Oct 2009 09:18:00 -0400

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.

Went to Dana Boulé’s concert at La Maroquinerie. She rocked. You can check out her music here. It was there that I finally met the lovely Meg Zimbeck and her friend Barbra of Serve It Forth, with whom I’ve seen several times since then. Lovely times.
Did some exploring in the 8th and ended up doing a fun little piece for Teen Vogue on the Vogue France covers that have taken over the Champs-Elysées. Very cool and sort of like a mini history lesson.
All day birthday party chez une copine. Wish I could say these pics make sense in context…but no.

This might be my favorite out of all the Vogue covers at the...

Wed, 21 Oct 2009 09:06:00 -0400

This might be my favorite out of all the Vogue covers at the little installation on the Champs-Elysées.

Little Leo’s Paris Spots for eatin’ and...

Sat, 17 Oct 2009 04:44:00 -0400

Little Leo’s Paris Spots for eatin’ and drinkin’: In the past month, I’ve definitely been frequenting a few places, some new, some old. Thought I’d share.

Cafe Charlot, 38, Rue de Bretagne, 3rd (pictured above, via Paris Daily Porn). I love this cafe even though it feels like a New York restaurant trying to imitate a Paris bistro. I’ve enjoyed coming here to work as they have free Wifi. It can get quite crowded, so I’ve come for late morning coffee spot or early evening apéros. It also happens to be an acceptable spot for breaking things off with French men.
Le Petit Cafe, 6 Rue Descartes, 5th. “The little cafe” couldn’t be named better—it’s simple and would almost be nondescript were it not for some sort of coziness you find there. It’s a studenty place around the corner from the Panthéon (packed at noontime), although the prices aren’t as studenty as you’d like them to be. Nevertheless, the food is terrific and the plates are hearty—meat that falls off the bone with golden potatoes, croque monsieur on artisanal bread, pastas with sweet plum tomato sauce.
Kim Lien, 33 Place Maubert, 5th. Unpretentious Vietnamese place good for lunch or casual dinner. Get the Bo Bun, rice noodles with beef. A dish and a beer is about 16 euros.
Pères Populaires, 46 Rue de Buzenval, 20th. A bobo wine bar that feels a bit like a living room with groups of run-down couches and mismatching tables and chairs. Wine by the pichet is super cheap (and even the cheapest one is delicious). The cheese and charcuterie platters are also huge and awesome. Definitely a place you could come alone to and read thanks to the variety of seating options.
Marché Biologique, Sundays at Boulevard Raspail. Not the cheapest, but some of the most amazing lait cru yaourts I’ve tasted and fresh multigrain breads.
Le Lutétia, 33, quai de Bourbon, 4th. I can’t say this cafe is anything to write home about, but it is around the corner from my place on île St. Louis, and is one the few cafes on the island that isn’t always packed with tourists. Sitting outside gives you a nice view of the Seine (facing North).

a night to never remember

Sat, 17 Oct 2009 03:58:00 -0400

A few weeks ago, I wrote about an experience I had in Paris back in 2005:

Two guys sat to my right, both in their 50s, American expat types who were obviously regulars. They began talking to me, and eventually after a few glasses, I found myself in a deep conversation with one of them. The subject: love, of course. And right before I had got up to leave, he said something so striking. Maybe….”You’re afraid of love,” or “You don’t know you’re in love until…” but neither of those is right.

And now I can’t for the life of me remember what it was.

So last night, when a new girlfriend called and invited me to have a drink with her at the very same restaurant, I absolutely accepted, and decided to arrive a bit early to revisit the past. Maybe something would come back to me and I would remember what it was the man told me that made so much sense.

The place, which you can guess with a bit of research, is in the 6th, specializes in seafood, and is always packed with Anglophones. Last night it was especially crowded when I walked into the cacophonous cloud of Australian and American accents, and only one remaining bar stool was open. I began ordering a glass of wine in French, and realizing my bartender was American, switched halfway to English. The noise, crowd, and language switch had given me tunnel vision where I was concentrating only on the task at hand—getting my glass. So once it arrived, I finally took a look around the place. And I couldn’t believe it—the two wisealecs who had chatted me up four years ago were at the end of the bar. My jaw nearly dropped. It had to be them. I couldn’t shift my gaze for a good minute, and wondered if maybe, somewhere in the back of their (drunken, clearly) minds if they recognized the little American girl. Of course not.

I began to feel a little awkward. Maybe I had budgeted too much time for reflection and reminiscing because it had now been 20 minutes, I’d finished my glass of Anjou, and my friends had only just texted to say they were on their way. I shut my cell phone and sighed, keeping my gaze on the door so people wouldn’t think I was really alone.

A minute later, a French man wedged in next to me to pay his bill and a glass of white wine appeared at my side. “C’est pour vous,” he said with a smile.

“Um, really? Pourquoi?”

“I saw you sitting alone. A pretty girl should never sit alone without a drink.”

“Well, thank you. It’s very nice of you,” I said, accepting the glass, and then expecting him to prod me for more conversation. But no, he paid for the glass, said goodnight, and left. I was shocked. That has never happened to me before…a stranger buying me a drink. And he didn’t even want anything out of it?! (I’ve actually always wanted to find myself sitting at a bar to find a bartender bring me a glass of champagne and say, “From the gentleman over there,” then I’d look at it and say, “Send it back.”)

Ten minutes later, my girlfriend arrived and I told her about how I was experiencing a romantic movie cliche moment and simultaneously having deja vu, I said, motioning to the loud crowd at the end of the bar. “Oh yeah…” she whispered. “They’re always here…” I realized it didn’t surprise me, and even made me feel depressed. I never want to end up like that.

I wasn’t going to say anything to the man and his friend about meeting them years ago, but—and here is where I just go ugh—I did end up saying something, because the moment just happened. I would regret it, but know the man likely doesn’t remember most of last night. Anyhow, we stayed until the bar nearly closed (new girlfriend is friends with the bartender) and he and one woman were the only other people there besides us. “Hey,” he shouted over to me. “What’s your story? You live in Paris?” Yes, I said. “How long?”

“Well…I lived here for a year in 2005…” I began, doubting it would ring any bells, “And now I just moved back a month ago.”

I then told him that I thought “maybe” we had met back then, because I had come here once before and remembered someone like him. “Probably true,” he slurred. I went on a bit, but the awkwardness overcame me, and I ended up turning around the conversation mid-sentence. “Hey wait…” he said, confused. “Didn’t you just say something about how you met me before?” “Nope. Not at all.” “You sure?” “Yes. Not sure what you’re talking about.” “Oh. Ok,” he agreed and finished off his glass. “Then what were we talking about? I can’t remember.”

“Nothing,” I said, and turned back to my friends.

(via nicool)

Thu, 15 Oct 2009 13:00:17 -0400

(via nicool)

french vogue covers take over the champs-elysees in paris

Wed, 14 Oct 2009 18:11:11 -0400

french vogue covers take over the champs-elysees in paris:

Latest thing of mine for Teen Vogue.

For my French readers/readers in France: anyone know if you can get reimbursed for timbres fiscaux?...

Wed, 14 Oct 2009 09:55:37 -0400

For my French readers/readers in France: anyone know if you can get reimbursed for timbres fiscaux? And where/how? I bought too many.