La Coquette

Overheard near a famous cathedral in Paris today:

“Look, hun!  It’s Noder DAY-yam!” 

I love that there are places in America where the word “Dame” can be pronounced in two syllables.  Also, I would pay good money to hear this lady request directions from the “AYE-raw-port.”

A Sound Investment

Can you guess what this is?

In retrospect, I so wish my comment had involved the words "des connards."

Sunday afternoon, I indulged in the Death By 1,000 Calories of Molten Chocolate Experience that is chocolat chaud in France.   First of all, I love that it’s served in a porcelain pitcher.  I love that after refilling one’s empty teacup several times, there are dark chocolate streaks clinging to the side of the pristine, white porcelain, like wax drippings on a candle.   The chocolate is so thick that, as it begins cooling, it forms a pudding-like skin on top, and I love that, too.  Tilting the teacup to your lips, the pudding-skin slips away like quicksilver, leaving one no choice but to finally conquer it with a swoop of a spoon at the end.   And the taste?  Lest this delve into overtly graphic realms, (TOO LATE, I KNOW), let me just say that I challenge anyone not to moan at least once.

This particular cocoa nirvana took place at a café on Boulevard Montparnasse, with an American girl à peu près de mon age, whom we’ll call E.  After a few hours of sinning together in the form of how many Weight Watchers points I DON’T EVEN WANT TO KNOW, we decided to walk back to my neighborhood for obvious cardiovascular reasons.    This amounts to a 30 minute balade from the hustle of Montparnasse area, along the quieter Boulevard Raspail, through the chic Saint Germain des Prés and into the tourist-laden err, colorful Latin Quarter I call home.  The typically gray Parisian-winter sky even approached sunniness at several points there.  I’m telling you, it was a veritable Maxwell Coffee commercial of an afternoon.

At about the corner of Boulevard Raspail and Rue de Rennes, enter a group of four French men spewing generic come-ons in our direction, INTERRUPTING OUR COFFEE COMMERCIAL IN PARIS MOMENT.  E had mentioned to me earlier that, in situations such as this, she always deflects with, “Je suis Findlandaise.”  It cracked me up that she pretends to speak an esoteric language, not because it’s implausible (she’s tall with platinum blonde hair--you would totally buy that she's Finnish), but because it says something about French men that SHE HAS OUTLINED SUCH A POLICY IN THE FIRST PLACE. 

It wasn’t long before our deliberate silence led one man to say, “Quoi, vous ne parlez pas Francais?”  (What, you don’t speak French?)  Maybe it was the snicker on his face or the 1,000 grams of sugar coursing through my veins, but this really riled me up because:  Dude, I didn’t spend precious years memorizing assigned genders for inanimate objects, and I definitely didn’t learn how to conjugate the stupid SUBJUNCTIVE so you could interrupt my Sunday in Paris Coffee Commercial Moment and TELL ME I DON’T KNOW HOW TO SPEAK FRENCH.

“Si, on parle francais,” I blurted in one breath.  After a satisfying pause, I continued to say, “Mais on n’a pas envie de parler avec vous.”  (Yes, we speak French, we just don’t have any desire to speak with you).

Watching them scuttle away from behind, E looked at me and said, “Or, that works too.”

It's only a matter of time before Madame L draws up a petition to have me evicted.

Just now, Jeanne and I were watching the game show Questions Pour Un Champion, and I kept having to remind her that it was past Madame L’s bedtime, which does NOT mix well with shouting along at game shows.  We were particularly worked up on account of tonight being the one time a year this program invites students from the Grandes Ecoles to compete, (like the Ivy Leagues in America), and HEY, HOT GEEKS!

After my eleventh time of "Shhh"ing Jeanne, I heard the announcer ask, “What is the contraction of two English words whose meaning is journal intime...” and before any of the contestants could hit their buzzers, I raised both arms in the air and shouted “WEBLOG!” loud enough that I’m sure it shook every wall in my 16th century apartment building.  And then I looked at Jeanne and covered my mouth and whispered, “Weblog!  I finally got one right!”

Celebrity Secrets--REVEALED!

Beyoncé Knowles appearing LIVE! on France's Star Academy

Just this morning at the gym, they were playing Phil Collins “Take a Look at Me Now.”  All I could think of (besides the irony of the side-burned monkey man strutting before the elliptical trainers wanting everyone to, you know, take a look at him), was the time Phil Collins sang the very same song with Hoda on Star Academy.

If the song doesn't immediately conjure up the same memory for you, allow me to enlighten:  Star Academy is a French reality television program, similar to American Idol, only, as I may have mentioned before, ABOUT A GAGILLION TIMES BETTER.  Beyoncé Knowles, Seal, and the man who causes every breathing girl except me to swoon--Lenny Kravitz, have all made appearances.  Which only leads me to believe one thing:  Star Academy must have a MASSIVE, MASSIVE BUDGET.

In light of their stellar celebrity turnout thus far, I was at the gym thinking, who could they “get” for next season?  (Because this is how deep my love for Star Academy runs that I ponder the program when it’s NOT EVEN ON THE AIR).  And then it hit me--Jessica Simpson.  If she confused Chicken of the Sea tunafish for ACTUAL POULTRY, what in god’s name would she have to say about paté?  And stinky cheeses?  And CAN YOU JUST IMAGINE THE EARTH-SHAKING CALAMITY if she tried to use a café bathroom and it was turkish?

And the best part is, we wouldn't even have to imagine, because there would be not one, but two reality programs filming the whole messed up spectacle.      

Buying Used

I had originally penciled in Saturday as Rug-Buying Day, but instead, I woke up to an entirely unexpected voicemail from the fashion editor of a magazine in Chicago--she was currently in Paris, she would be spending the day resale shopping, would I like to join her?

Tucking my jeans into my most comfortable-yet-chic, flat leather boots, and wrapping a soft, pink and white scarf up to my nose, I soon scrambled downstairs in glee, or as gleefully as is possible on an uneven, spirally, 16th century, WEAR HEELS AT THE RISK OF BREAKING YOUR OWN NECK staircase.

This does not happen to me every weekend, mind you--getting invitations to go shopping with fashion editors--and I can only take it as a sign that THERE ACTUALLY ARE KIND PEOPLE WHO WORK IN FASHION.  Especially when one considers that, while interning at this magazine, I was not even remotely involved in the fashion department.  (I was a fact checker--wonkishly policing for errors in stories.  And let me tell you, in all honesty, I LOVED IT, and you can’t call me a nerd because I JUST TOTALLY BEAT YOU TO IT).  But, let’s call this kind editor SJ, and oh yes, let’s also link to her portfolio so you can see how brilliant she is. 

You’ll probably want to know what she was wearing (non-metrosexual men, I am so sorry, but I HAVE AN OBLIGATION).  Last time I met with SJ, it was at the Café de Flore in March 2004.  She was donning Chanel, having come straight from the show.  Her coat was black and military-esque if I remember correctly--lots of buttons, très travaillé (very detailed).  This is her thing, you see; every fashionable person has a thing, and hers is the coats.  She was also wearing orange and white, spectator style high heels. (Yes, this was nearly a year ago, and, why can I remember things like this when I cannot remember my own door code? IT IS A GENETIC DISEASE, PEOPLE).  Saturday, SJ wore head-to-toe black right down to her flat Ann Demeulemeester boots.

After kissing hello at our first dépôt-vente in the 16th arrondissement, SJ immediately guided me towards a fur coat that had been swimming on her.  It was rather large on me too, which was okay, being that my Official Stance on Fur is, ahem, Officially Forever Waffling (in a department store, I most certainly will not support it, but show me a vintage mink stole and witness the flurry of justifications drop from my mouth like so many glass beads from a broken bracelet). 

The saleslady asked if we had seen the price. “C’est très intéressant,” she said.  We had seen it, and yes, 90 euros for a gorgeous fur coat is LAUGHABLY ATTRACTIVE.  And let me add that this was not a pouffy, wearing-your-mother’s fur coat, as Auntie M captured on a recent, blustery Day in Paris.  This was cool fur.  Sleek fur.  Skinny fur.  (Dare I tell you it was made from chèvre?  GOAT'S FUR--IT'S CHIC!  Who knew?).  Thankfully, we did not have to leave it behind.  SJ snapped it up for her sister, and we decided to head further downstream on the Seine. 

The next store was on a quiet residential street, and we were the only customers.  I took this to be an excellent sign, its emptiness belying many a clothing diamond in the rough.  It didn’t take us long to find the diamond.  Okay, SJ found it--an original André Courreges shift.  An original.  Courreges.  shift.  Don’t even get me started on the history, the chic Parisian woman who must have owned that shift and hung out at Le Drugstore (a.k.a. Publicis) in the early 60s. 

Hoping not to alarm the saleslady, I said through clenched teeth to SJ, ”it’s so cheap.”  And when I say cheap, I mean it was the price of a pair of Gap jeans.

“Try it,” SJ said.

I protested; it looked a bit small, and besides, orange?

“You always have to try,” said SJ The Wise.

And it fit.  Damn.  it. 

When I have a job (see how I haven’t even mentioned the desperate post from yesterday morning, so focused am I on providing you with fabulous shopping content?), maybe I can write about the wardrobe of outrageously chic vintage pieces I will be collecting.  But for now, I have to go with items that--dare I say it?--that I need.

For me, vintage shopping is more about bags, belts, costume jewelry, scarves--things that can go with jeans.

And also, have you seen the size of my closet? 

“Je vais reflechir,” I said to the sales lady, my throat catching just a little.  I'm going to think about it. 

The third store we hit was off of the Blvd. Exelmans, still in the 16th arrondissement, and we were certainly not the only customers.  There were heaps of designer costume jewelry.  Gucci heels, silk Chanel plaid mules with interlocking "CC"s in rhinestones, and good god, the Hermès scarf collection--it was a label whore's paradise. 

There were some giddy moments:  “Did you see the big Chanel medallion?” I said excitedly to SJ.  (Don’t get the wrong impression, I’m more of a Gwyneth than a JLo, but it was JUST. SO. GHETTO. FABULOUS.)  There was a leopard print coat in the window that had SJ’s hopes up for a moment, but it turned out to be too large for her.  False finds, in the end. 

It was getting dark, and we had just made the decision to duck into the corner café for a glass of wine when, in one of those HAWK-eyed moments that surely proves her prowess as a samurai shopper, SJ looks across the street and says “Is that another dépôt-vente?”  Before I could open my mouth to tell her I wasn’t wearing my glasses, she was halfway across the street. 

It wasn't a dépôt-vente.  At first glance, it seemed like any other “overstock” store of its type--selling sale item cast-offs that are there for a reason.  But SJ found pieces by a Romanian designer she enjoys, and then, she found a pearly pink Lawrence Steele coat that she adored, but again, it was too big.  (I was beginning to see the disadvantages of being as wafer-thin as she). 

We zeroed in on the jeans, which spurred a discussion about The Magic that is a nice jean cut.  (Are any men still reading this?  I'm so sorry).  The placement and size of the pocket is essential for the derrière, obviously (not to high, not too low, and SURTOUT not too small). 

But this particular French brand fit SJ and I so well, we each bought a pair.  And while neither of us found anything vintage for ourselves Saturday, the brand-name of the jeans was, appropriately enough, “Used.”

I can't publish the exact addresses of the stores, being that they are the fruit of SJ’s research, not mine, but I’m sure she wouldn’t mind me providing the location where we found the jeans (all of the other stores we hit were within walking distance, just wear your glasses and look for the signs saying "dépôt-vente"). 

Lou Donna Lea
29 Bd Exelmans
75016 Paris
01.42.88.03.04

Having The Cockroach

About The Job.  You don’t know the one I mean?  No, of course you don’t know the one I mean, because I didn't mention it to anyone (sorry, but that means the Internet, too), on account of the Jinx Gods.  Oh, and P.S., IT'S THE ONLY POTENTIAL JOB I'VE BEEN EXCITED ABOUT SINCE MOVING TO FRANCE.  Yes, that job.  Can you see where this is going?

Last Friday, I inquired as to my application status for The Job, only to hear via email, just now, that THEY HAVE COMPLETED A ROUND OF INTERVIEWS AND ARE NOW FILING APPLICATIONS.  Are you kidding me?  I didn’t even qualify FOR AN INTERVIEW?   Why is there no chocolate in my apartment?  Why is there no chocolate in Jeanne’s apartment?  Why is that rug I need to buy not buying itself and climbing up the stairs?  And what’s up with the title of this post?*  Nothing. makes. any. sense.

*The French expression for "having the blues" is avoir le cafard--literally, “to have the cockroach.”  Now that, I may have to concede, makes some sense.