A Thank You

Although I can’t claim to have been fortunate enough to know Alexander McQueen as a person, I do know his work very well. And as he was a true creative mind, perhaps that was the best way to get a glimpse of him.

I’m still very new to the fashion world, but I’m already growing tired of paint-by-numbers collections and the safeness of mediocrity. Lee’s show in Paris, blowing away a litany of bad “clothes,” always gave me (and others) a chance to witness the magic of real art. His designs not only moved me, but also caused me to think and look at the world in ways I never had before.

Because I never even met him, it doesn’t feel genuine to say that I will miss him. But I can’t explain how painful it is for me to grasp that the beauty and ingenuity I had come to look forward to every season will now be absent. At this point, everyone seems to think his show will not happen. Is it wrong of me to feel like this is losing him twice?

Lee can’t be easily forgotten. I truly believe that what he accomplished will become a reference point for fashion in the years to come. His intelligence, unique aesthetic and bravery are all qualities that I have learned from. But if I am still doing this when I am fifty, I sincerely hope that my talk of McQueen will not only be looking back on a past genius— I hope someone will have the same balls he did, and continue the work he started.

“Fashion should be a form of escapism, and not a form of imprisonment. I wasn’t born to give you a twin set and pearls.”

And So?

The bag from Coquelicot bakery in Montmartre made me laugh for about 10-minutes nonstop. It says, "Mangez des gateaux plus souvent!"

My friends and I have decided to spend our weekend at an undisclosed location (suffice to say that it is super awesome) and finally take advantage of the wonderful European train system. However, as I was so cruelly reminded this morning, another "great" thing about France is its love of unions and ability to organize social movements, i.e. strike like nobody's business.

I sashayed into practicum this morning, all madeleines and sunshine, dreaming of my fun ahead and planning the cute travel outfit I will wear, when a classmate said, "Hey, aren't you going to _____ this weekend?"

"Why, as a matter of fact I am!"

"Oh, so you figured out how to get around the strike?"

At this point I started laughing hysterically, because strikes are such a cliché— the proverbial flat tire in European backpacking— that I thought she surely must be heckling me.

Our professor overheard this, her ears finely tuned in to pick up these not-so-uncommon inconveniences, "La grève?"

The class nodded solemnly while I must have turned green, regretting such a sugary breakfast. She shrugged in that way I'm still trying to master, apparently unfazed.

As it turns out, this particular strike will not effect international trains and ends on Thursday. If you're wondering how I found this out, it's because although French workers' unions are inconsiderate enough to prevent 50% of the country from traveling, they are also frighteningly efficient, creating an official website for their efforts.

I am not kidding: http://www.infolignes.com/sommaire.php3

And, because I don't want to disappoint those of you who read especially for the foodie bits, after class today E, N and I went to Sale e Pepe in Montmartre to sample the legendary lunch menu that we read about in BlackBook Magazine: an appetizer, slice of pizza, pasta, dessert and grappa for 15 euro. However, I am here to tell you that this was a dirty, dirty lie. The only thing on the menu was pizza. However, we weren't disappointed as it was INCREDIBLE— just as good as and possibly better than Lombardi's or anyplace in NYC. What distinguished it for me were the toppings. Normally I am not a toppings girl, as I hate wet, old vegetables out of a can on my cheesy goodness. But the artichokes, ham, red peppers, salami and mushrooms were so fresh and enjoyable, I was practically pushing aside the margarita we got.

The place was tiny and adorable, with only one man running it, so we forgave him for cheating us of the promised feast. However, the other group in the restaurant didn't. We overheard them asking him if they, "Could please ask him a question?" at which point, we all looked wide-eyed at each other, perfectly aware that when someone is that polite, shit is about to go down. It turns out they were asking about the disappearance of the menu too. We never got a satisfactory answer. Maybe the kitchen was on strike?

Je Veux Seulement Oublier

Still obsessed with these mushrooms— they are perfect for my pasta.


The most delicious hazelnut, pear and chocolate chip tart in the world will surely get me through my exam.

As I'm slowly awakening from the pleasant daze of the weekend, I'm realizing that this is my last week of French grammar boot camp (huzzah!). Although in ways I'll certainly miss the course, I can't wait to get back to a real university schedule, where I choose my courses to take up a minimum amount of time and then complain vehemently about them, only to not-so-secretly adore their bookish appeal. It's how I get off.

My French cinema class started early today— actually, it was supposed to start even earlier, but that is another story— and I discovered that academic pretension is even more fun when it's in French. Students kept leaving in the middle of lecture, coming back with tiny cafés and staring inquisitively around the room. That didn't stop them from taking full advantage of our 15-minute recess later in the session. Our professor is absolutely wonderful, by the way. I like her because she's snide in front of the class, but sweet and charming one-on-one. She also throws around the word "aesthetic" a lot. This is a good sign for me, because if I can't understand a film, at least I can write about how pretty it is.*

As a general cultural observation, I've discovered that this attitude is becoming one of my favorite things about the French. They aren't at all afraid to be total assholes in public, because making a scene or being aggressive is how they achieve what they want. But this shouldn't be mistaken for their actual personalities— not at all. For my part, I tend to bottle up my rage, thinking it's better to be polite when someone interrupts me or cuts in line, while I am inwardly plotting my sweet, sweet revenge. I think their way might be healthier, or at least more direct and honest.

Because this is my last week of practicum, I won't have much time for exploring. I will mostly be staying in and pretending to study, or alternatively, going to a café, ordering pastries and actually (kind of) working. Either way, I think there is a lot of dessert and pasta chez moi in my future.

* This is what I always end up writing about at Columbia anyway.