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.