La Coquette

La Rentree, or They're Baaack

I couldn’t help but slack off a little bit. It was August--it was fucking hot. Please remember that there’s no air conditioning. Us Parisians, the ones who have stayed, feel really ashamed that we aren’t in Saint Tropez or something, so we’ve gone into camouflage to blend in with the tourists. Plus did I mention it’s REALLY FUCKING HOT?

Anyway, they caught us off guard.

Today at Monoprix, it was all trench coats and slouchy boots, tans and lip gloss, slim jeans and dogs on leads. Back from les vacances--back from Biarritz and Saint Tropez.

What's In A Name?

My name is what sells me out.  When I first moved to Paris seven months ago with my college-level (at best) French, I dreaded having to give my name because of what would inevitably follow: 

FRENCH PERSON:  (Saying my name).  But that’s a really french name!
ME:  Yes, actually my father’s French, but we didn’t speak it growing up. (This said remorsefully, to help soften the blow).
FRENCH PERSON:  Not actually sure what they were saying, being as it was so mired by tongue clicking, lip pursing, “C’est pas vrais!”’s and various Gallic manifestations of freaking out. 

I love the French, but they’re SUPER theatrical.