À Bientôt, Paris

I’m leaving Paris in a couple weeks. And though I’ve been neglecting this blog, I have too much to say to keep quiet right now. Paris and I have had a complicated relationship since the beginning. I first came here in high school for a brief trip and the sheer beauty of it hit me like a brick wall. There was nothing terribly remarkable about what we did. Actually, the whole visit was a blur of mediocre meals, exhaustive walking, tours I didn’t (care to) understand and bed bugs. Anyone who knows the type of traveler I am knows that I would normally hate that. But the thing is, I didn’t. I fell in love.

When I came back the next year to study abroad, I really claimed Paris as mine. This is when I made memories and finally explored the city— got to know it intimately. But it was a bubble. At that point, I didn’t really understand Paris. To me, it was a land of massages at Le Meurice and Michelin star dinners. An incredible trip no doubt, but in terms of our relationship, an absolute honeymoon period. Every time I came here since then, for vacation or studying, it disappointed me. I was finally exposed to Paris’s realities, which can be pret-ty harsh. As someone who lives in NYC full-time, I’d say even tougher than that supposed paragon of steel. You see, unless you know how to get to them, Parisians just don’t give a shit. This place can be unforgiving if you don’t bend with it.

This time though, I was forgiving. I stopped asking Paris to be something it’s not. I’ve enjoyed the magic when it happens, but I don’t force it when it doesn’t. Believe me, there is plenty of magic— Pierre Hermé white truffle macarons, Sunday market, the YSL exhibit, boeuf bourguignon at Josephine, dancing on tables at Chez Georges, my weekend walks along the Seine. But most of all, that feeling I get when I come home from a weekend of traveling, and I see my street for the first time. That’s something I can’t really explain. I don’t know if I have ever been that happy or where that feeling comes from.

The thought of leaving Paris makes me heartsick. But not afraid. Because in my growing acceptance of this fucked up place, and my personal growth in learning to deal with its challenges, I know that not only will I always be welcomed back, but that I will be bringing a large part of it with me.

Joan Didion claimed that, “A place belongs forever to whoever claims it hardest, remembers it most obsessively, wrenches it from itself, shapes it, renders it, loves it so radically that he remakes it in his own image." I’ve always enjoyed that quote, but after this semester, I would have to disagree with it. As with any true love, love of a place can’t be about possession. When I am here in the future (and I know I will be), I want Paris to be Paris. That Paris. Not the Paris I’m dreaming of, or the Paris I remember best. I know the moments when I feel that love the strongest will always catch me by surprise. And they will be all the more beautiful for it.

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.

Je t'aime, moi non plus

La Pagode


I need this poster.


Tributes


A drawing of Serge and Jane on their former home's wall

This was a weekend that Serge Gainsbourg would have been proud of. Not only because it was saturated with memory of the man himself, but because we enjoyed ourselves up to his impeccable standards. After a long week of conjugating for hours a day, there was no option but to go out and celebrate. We chose the modern Lebanese restaurant Liza, sharing tapas of hummus, pumpkin kebbe, chicken rolls, kebabs and the most fragrant rose, almond and pistachio ice cream I've ever had. Before descending upon our usual clubs, M, A and I decided to attempt to infiltrate the mysterious Experimental Cocktail Club, a semi-private faux speakeasy frequented by off-beat locals and celebs, such as Quentin Tarantino. Luckily for us, the bouncer appeared to have a thing for the awkward Américaine vibe we were working, pronouncing us "trop mignons!" and waving us inside. We weren't disappointed. Hard liquor is usually shunned in favor of wine here, but these concoctions were exquisite— some of the best of my life. Perhaps the fresh ingredients explain the appeal. The bar practically smelled like a florist between the herbs, berries and flowers being crushed into syrup.

Despite getting lost in the night, we had to find ourselves again right after dawn to make a showing of the new film, Serge Gainsbourg: Vie héroïque at la Pagode. Incidentally, it appears that the owners had an even rougher evening than us— no one arrived until ten minutes before the film to let people (or the resident cat) into the theatre. But the old-fashioned decor, velvet curtains and incredible chinois architecture made it worth the hassle, not to mention a quality-vs.-convenience moment.

As for the film, like the director, I can't really be impartial when it comes to Serge. That explains why he decided to make the movie partially animated/puppetry fantasy, claiming he loves Serge too much to tell his story through anything but, "exaggerations and lies." Although the Pan's Labyrinth actor seriously, seriously freaks me out, I loved the way Serge was split into different personalities. And of course, the music made up for any of the weaker moments. But we have Serge to thank for that.

Today was one of the first beautiful afternoons we've had in awhile, so I decided to walk around the 7th. Funnily enough, I found myself coming up to chez Gainsbourg-Birkin and decided to stop by to pay my respects. Although each is an icon to me individually, I find their union incredibly moving. Supposedly Jane and Charlotte keep the inside of the house exactly as it was when Serge was alive, with all of his old knick-knacks and many, many Repetto white Zizi lace-ups.

Here are a couple of my favorite Serge moments. The first is him singing "Manon," which is 1) possibly the most tragic song ever and 2) perfectly explains why women couldn't keep their clothes on around him, despite the face. The second is him with Jane— enough said.

Oh, and There Are Clothes Here Too!

I was banging my head on my desk at my summer internship last July when I heard about the Madeleine Vionnet exhibition at my favorite fashion museum in the world, Musée de la Mode et du Textile, part of the Louvre's Musée des Arts Décoratifs. Designers such as Marc Jacobs and Jean-Paul Gaultier were flocking to see the rare and legendary dresses, making it near impossible for mere mortals to get in between irregular opening hours and crowds. Fortunately, the show was extended until this weekend due to its immense popularity— so no need for that meltdown afterall.

When I went the other day, the museum was STILL, if you can believe it, more packed than I have ever seen it, even more so than when they did Balenciaga and Valentino retrospectives. I love France for this. I guarantee you almost no one outside of this country has ever heard of Vionnet (excepting, maybe, the insulting current line that surely causes pauvre Mme Vionnet to spin 360's in her grave) despite the fact that it is arguably one of the most influential fashion houses in history. Let us take a moment to thank her for the bias-cut and her minimalist, modern take on clothing that is still with us today. Merci bien!

Going through the exhibit, I really was shocked at how current many of the pieces still are. And not just current, but seriously ahead of what many designers are doing now. There was something very Japanese about her aesthetic in the way that large, geometric cuts of fabric were placed and twisted together to make deceptive simplicity. Mme Vionnet, may I present you to Yohji Yamamoto?

Fancy schmancy videos digitally showed you how many of the gowns were made and played vintage atelier photos with models in the garments to demonstrate how they work on a human form. The Costume Institute should have this... It should also, incidentally, not be shut down all the time.

I tried to photograph the exhibit, as the only thing I like more than food porn is clothing porn. Truly, I get alarmingly worked up over looking at pictures of hats. It's my guilty pleasure. But photography is expressively forbidden and as I learned last time I was there, they are not kidding. I was definitely going to sneak a few but the guard who threatened to throw me out of the Valentino exhibit for "persisting" was there again and I got really scared. As a result, all of these photos are stolen from the museum's website AND I'M NOT SAYING SORRY.

The Snozberries Tasted Like Snozberries!

Miam miam miam!


They were waving "bonjour!" at me.


Cabbage can be beautiful. Who knew?


The mysterious fluffy chicken

Something I have always wanted to do, but have somehow neglected up until this past Sunday, was a trip to the Richard-Lenoir market by the Bastille. This is the largest food market in Paris with so many vendors I honestly felt overwhelmed after an hour wandering around. Fruit, fish, poultry, wild game, red meat, eggs, cheese, prepared stuffs, bread, desserts and more were available in ridiculous quantities from multiple stands. Even with my total lack of genuine knowledge and experience, it wasn't hard to pick-up on the crowd favorites— these were the ones you had to boldly shove your way up to. Fortunately, C and I are deadly serious when it comes to food.

All of the produce was gorgeous and full of bright, natural color. The strawberries were truly red and the pumpkin looked a rich orange, clearly not pumped full of artificial anything. Part of the fun was interacting with the crowd, sampling mango and aged pecorino, complimenting each vendor on their work. I bonded with one over his intensely beautiful zebra eggplant, explaining that I had never seen anything like it before. But the selection of fish amazed me the most. This came as a surprise, since I typically avoid the ocean altogether. But this didn't smell at all. The fresh fruit had a stronger odor, while boeuf bourguignon simmered in the distance. It was only later upon closer examination that I realized why this was. Much of the shrimp and clams were still alive, their legs waving and shells opening and closing. We were promised fresh, and that was what we got.

In the end, we left with bags of clementines, plums and some caramel buerre salé, promising to return and make a full meal from whatever we grab. Apparently, at the end of the market at 1 p.m., it is Parisian law that everything that is unsold must be reduced in price (so much so that it is practically free) or given away, so that nothing is wasted. I was wondering where it all goes.

Continuing the outdoor market trend, we headed to the (pet) bird market by Notre-Dame. I found this sight depressing in contrast. It was much more empty than Richard-Lenoir, and I had to fight my urge to release all of the animals from their cages. I suppose I'm not a zoo person after all. The one bright spot was an odd menagerie of a petting zoo, including a goose, a chicken, a disturbingly large rabbit and this... perfectly round puff of feathers. Perhaps I will go back in the end. I could use another souvenir.