Fashion Fail

Oh Paris, how lovely you are - the sun is shining, it is finally creeping up above 50 degrees, the trees are beginning to flower and... there's a freaking hurricane that's about to blow my shutters off the building? Whoever said that March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb clearly never spent spring in Paris. The wind is so forceful that I have been knocked over. Like, really and truly stumbled because a gust of wind grabbed hold of my grocery bag and practically pulled me into oncoming traffic. Also, you wouldn't believe the torrential downpours we have. It's given me a new vocabulary, though. Orage = storm, nuages = clouds and tempete = really bad storm. The thing about storms in Paris is that traffic becomes exponentially worse. The problem with this for me is that people don't stop for pedestrians when it's raining. (Even when the little walking man is green. You know what I'm talking about.) Wait, this seems rude and counterintuitive? Oh, hey, welcome to Paris.

Here's something else that is interesting. Young French children in ecole maternelle (elementary school) do not have school on Wednesday. Because of this, many of their moms don't work Wednesdays either. These kids generally have lots of exciting activities planned - extra English courses, tennis instruction, piano lessons, gym classes... But the kids who are lucky enough to escape all of this? They go to the park. The thing about these parks is that on Wednesdays they are PACKED with nannys or moms or nannys with moms (yes, some moms bring their nanny along even if they're not working and are available all day). This turns the park into a veritable runway. I have never seen moms like these. They totter through the sandbox in their patent Louboutins, clutching a classic quilted Chanel bag and wearing perfectly tailored cropped Dior trousers. Their hair has been nicely coiffed (clearly they have recently come from their weekly "brushing" session at the hair salon) and their nails are perfectly filed ovals. Yet here they are, sitting on the filthy playground while their grimy brats rubs sticky fingers all over their Lanvin blouses. Yet another reason I will never pass for a French woman.

Vintage

I have a really important question. When I type "vintage stores in paris" into Google, why, oh why, are the first four entries for American Apparel? Did I miss something?

However, if you are in Paris and you do want to find excellent second-hand clothing stores, here is a good website for you: http://flair.modepass.com/carnetadresse/vintage-shop-paris/. I personally recommend Vintage on rue des Rosiers, but don't go on a Sunday because it gets packed. There are several reasons for this. First of all, it is right next door to the most popular falafel stand in the city (l'As du Falafel). Second of all, the neighborhood (the Marais) is kind of touristy on the weekends. Third of all, the Marais being the Jewish quarter, it is the only part of the city where there are actually stores open on Sunday. Everywhere else, Paris is closed.

Now I have another question. When you go to "flea markets," why are they selling vintage shoes for more than I would pay for new shoes? I don't care if Coco Chanel made those herself, those are some woman's old shoes that you're charging me 250 euros for. Just saying.

Mind the Gaffe

So, your globe-trotting correspondent is now back in Paris after two weeks of fresh air, sunshine and snow in the lovely Alps. I must say, travel to and from was easier than I expected. The TGV is pretty amazing. Incidentally, TGV stands for Trains a Grande Vitesse, or really fast trains. Turns out, they go so fast that sometimes they make your ears pop and prevent you from getting a solid cell phone signal. In the case of my journey, the train was also inhabited by a large number of cranky old people who, for some reason or another, did not find a four-year-old's loud rendition of the Animaniacs theme song (in French and occasionally substituting "caca" for words he forgot) amusing or cute. Honestly, the nerve of some people.

While I was in the Alps, I had the distinct honor of being invited to a dinner party hosted and attended by French people. Everyone spoke only French to each other and to me (as one would expect), and as soon as I got over how weird their accents were (they were from the south of France), I totally joined in the conversation. Some things you should know: in France, it is entirely acceptable to discuss politics and the state of the world and things like that at the dinner table, especially if you are of the opinion that "Sarko" is just messing things up and Carla Bruni is trash; it is not, however, advisable to discuss money or anything pertaining to anything related to money. One of the men at the table committed the inexcusable gaffe of trying to talk to me about the state of the American higher education system, specifically how expensive universities are and how in debt everyone is when they graduate. I thought the women at the table were going to faint or slap him or both. It will please my readers to know, however, that I did kiss everyone's cheeks upon entering the room as I was introduced, so I was not the object of censure (this time).

Seriously though, I'm really glad to be back in this city that I'm coming to regard as home. This can be demonstrated by the fact that, because I didn't have to work today, I laid in the bed until 5:30 reading Atlas Shrugged and experiencing feelings of bitterness against Ayn Rand before I realized that I had eaten nothing but granola bars all day because I had no food in the house. I did manage to drag my lazy butt to the grocery store, helped along by the raspberry macaron that I bought along the way at my friendly neighborhood patisserie. Incidentally, if you're even in Paris and poor (story of my life), I recommend shopping at Ed or Franprix. Inno and Monoprix (which I think might actually be the same store with a different name) are too classy for me.

Now I'm home, back in bed (with food this time) and eager to get back to my grapples with Ayn Rand and everything she entails. A la prochaine!

Here's how you spot a Parisian skier

Here's how you spot a Parisian skier (the female of the species):

Ski pants are tight and trendy enough to wear out clubbing, but somehow are appropriate / durable enough for a full day of skiing (or a full day of walking around in ski clothes pretending you're a skier)
Jacket is one of three brands: Moncler, Canada Goose or Fire + Ice. Of the super-shiny, puffy, down variety. Must include a ridiculously bushy fur-trimmed hood. And none of that fake shit.
If she wears a hat (which is unlikely), it must include one or both of the following: rhinestones, puffy fur thing on top
Super-long, carefully disheveled hair is nearly always worn down so that is streams behind said skier in the event that she does actually decide to take on a slope or two.
Designer sunnies are a must. Balenciaga or Dior are preferred.
Makeup is also usually worn. I have seen more eyeliner on the ski slopes than I would normally wear for a night out.
When not skiing, moon boots are generally worn.

Here's how you spot a live-in, traveling nanny (these are always female):

Sweatpants tucked into apres-ski boots because she didn't have time to put on real pants before chasing the children out of the house.
Grubby t-shirt, probably the one she slept in
A ski jacket if she had time to grab it on the way out
Possibly some sunglasses so she can actually see the kids amidst all the white (in this nanny's case, some white wayfarers. don't judge.)
Said nanny could also be trailing a bag full of toys, ski accessories for children (hoods, helmets, mittens, scarves), bottled water, sunscreen, cookies and applesauce. Trash may or may not be flying out of this bag as she goes.

Now, dear readers, please picture the look of disdain on Parisian Skier's face as Grubby Nanny goes sprinting past her trying to keep up with a toddler on skis. This is my life, people. Somehow, the cold shoulder has never felt so cold as it does here in the Alps.

At least I have fondue to keep me warm.

Alpine dining

Ok, first of all, you guys are not participating in the interactive blogging which means I'm going to have to be creative and come up with my own French stereotypes to blog about. Not today, though. Today, we're talking about food.

There's this problem I have here in France where I can't.stop.eating. The reason for this, clearly, is that the food is delicious. This is especially a problem here in the Alps where everything is so hearty. For example, last night I had this pasta dish in which I could hardly find the pasta because of all of the heavy cream and melted cheese. I'm lactose intolerant, so this was a poor choice. But I couldn't stop. There are also these two cheeses that are made really close to Val d'Isere called Reblochon and Beaufort. Reblochon is kind of a mild soft cheese, Beaufort is a little stronger (but not in a gross way) and it's a hard cheese. And there's an open air market on Mondays where the vendors force little bites of cheese on you as you walk by, very innocently trying to buy whole grain cereal and granola bars so you don't become obese, obesity being the deadliest of sins to the French. Today, as you know, is Monday. I am therefore so full of cheese I can hardly move. Added to all of this cheese are normal French things like having pastries and Nutella on brioche for breakfast. Between the cheese and the pastries, I'm pretty much screwed.

So here's my big question (prefaced by a statement): From what I have gathered, French people do not eat a lot of fruits and vegetables. They eat very few whole grains (just try to find brown rice in a grocery store, for real). They do, however, eat lots of really buttery and sugary things as well as lots of very heavy cream-based dishes. They also drink copious amounts of espresso and wine, neither of which is diet-friendly. Additionally, I rarely see French people exercising (although maybe they all have super-chic expensive gym memberships). So, dear readers, please tell me how, how, how do French women of all ages have butts like 12-year-old boys?

Now, give me some more stereotypes, people!

Until next time, gros bisous from the French Alps.