Welcome to la Folie

I'll take that one.


Le balon rouge?


A REAL crêpe... ahem, Artopolis


The View

I couldn't be any happier. I made it to Paris without major incident or delay (no thanks to Newark, you old cesspool, you). My apartment is not only adorable, but also in the perfect location of Saint-Germain-des-Prés where my neighbors are almost unbearably chic... Alcazar, le Wagg, le Comptoir, Assouline, Dior, Karl Lagerfeld, la Palette and Pierre Hermé to name a few. And not forgetting its storied history, the cafés housed everyone from Hemingway to Beauvoir. Existentialism, anyone? As for myself, I'm finding plenty of meaning here— but mostly in the edible form. Maybe Sartre wouldn't count Ladurée rose and chestnut macarons, buerre Bordier, second-old bread and mushroom/gruyère crêpe, but I certainly do. Predictably, just about the only thing I've done since I've arrived is eat. The problem is that I see something I love, MUST have some, and it's only when I feel dangerously full that I remember that I'm here until June. Berthillon, I will have you yet. But preferably when holding you desirously and whispering into your ear doesn't freeze my hands off.

Thankfully, then there are the stairs. My 6th-floor, elevator-deprived apartment is both a daily exercise regime as well as a free pass to eat whatever the hell I want. I'm sincerely hoping that those steps are working as much as they hurt, because les soldes are already crying out to me, and I must fit into these incredible finds. The Isabel Marant studded booties that every sane New York lady pines after (seriously, why Isabel, WHY?! OPEN SOONER!) are not only a block away from me right now, but half-price. I think I stared at them for a solid 15 minutes yesterday. Of course, sales don't stop me from coveting the new goods. Oh no. I also had to stop and examine LV's window display, accessories perched in bird cages. I'm not sure why it is, but window displays in Paris prove to be something I actually want to look at, stop for and perhaps ultimately buy. Why can't other window displays, you know, do their job?

America is better at some things though. Like toilet paper. I discovered this fact with Carolina and her parents today when we went to brunch (INCREDIBLE croque and rhubarb tart) and did miscellaneous running around, along with spouts of not-so-glamorous modeling in the freezing wind. Literally everything Caro brought from the US is at least 70% bigger than its French counterpart. I am not sure how to feel about this— mostly ashamed of unnecessary gluttony, but partly homesick for Bounty paper towels.

We took a long walk from my place to the Bastille, satisfying my urge. My contentment reminded me of my first long stay here, where the small things couldn't get to me. That was when I realized I could be happy alone— at least in Paris. That feeling came back today. Even though seriously(!) every single phone and housewares store was closed, meaning I could get nothing accomplished, it thrilled me just to wander around, oblivious. Who needs to accomplish anyway?

Ok, I admit that maybe the happiness would be even more intense if I were to buy those Isabel Marant boots. But just a little.