Author Archives: Sylvia

About Sylvia

Vini, vidi, Paris... I look forward to sharing the fun, flavours and fashion of living in Paris with two teen Parisiennes and Mr French. A true Californian in search of that certain je ne sais quoi, I came to Paris an over weight, under-shod vegetarian. I've since learned to shave my legs, wear a bra, and act like a grown up. A lot of work, but I'm loving it, and my teens are oh so thankful now that I am infinitely less embarrassing.

Take that, bunny!

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Yesterday, Benoît left me a bunny, which is how the French say, “I was stood up!*” Benoît is was my bricoleur. He has a day job in construction and would come to my home evenings or weekends to work as a handyman. Yesterday he was meant to be hanging curtain rods, fixing closet doors and removing a radiator. Instead, he stayed home nursing a hangover. I had gotten rid of the girls, borrowed tools and risen early on a Sunday morning. I was vex-éd.
Mr French was not exactly thrilled either. It had been a gorgeous Saturday and Sunday looked even better. Normally we’d already be on our way to the beach for an early morning run. Or we’d have spent the night in the countryside. Of course, when he mentioned this I was only more vex-éd.
AND I shouldn’t have been home at all! I should have been running the 6km La Parisienne race. I’d been training all summer and was keen to beat my personal best record, but my fall at Fashion Night Out had put the kebosh on all that. So I was even more vex-éd than called for.
The thought of spending an absolutely gorgeous Sunday afternoon in Paris with a severely annoyed woman did not seem like a good plan. Mr French jumped into action. “Get out the isotherm bags, we’re going on a pique nique.”

Yes, I know, in Paris, you imagine charming woven market baskets, which is exactly what I have. But Mr French is very into temperature control, so we use those practical, horribly un-romantic isotherms when he is in charge. Fortunately, this doesn’t happen often.
I complied then scurried off to get dressed while he took care of the feast. 20 minutes later the car was packed, the top was down and we were off for Versailles. Not the chateau, but the town, with its fabulous Sunday market where I have a rather serious crush on the mushroom lady. But we wouldn’t be visiting her today. We already had our picnic. So I was really confused when he parked and headed her way.
Just as we hit the market, he made a sharp right turn into what looked like a private courtyard et voilà…. there was a tiny collection of vintage shops selling canes, postcards, French fashion and even some serious antiques from timber framed shops built in the 1670’s. We spent an hour combing through the treasures as I fantasized about buying a queen carrier. That’s not the official name, but several shops had those large boxes, with a seat for one inside, windows around the top 1/3 and large metal clasps for pole bearers to use for transporting nobility across the palace grounds. They’re called sedan chairs (thanks Google) and I could just see the lines of clamouring tourists scrambling to pay a small fortune to ride one through the Tuilleries gardens. And then I thought of Benoît and employees who don’t show, and my stomach started growling and I was ready to head to the chateau grounds even if Mr French was not willing to carry me there.

 

*Il m’a posé un lapin (espèce de con may be added for some local color)

Friday@Flore / Fashion Night Out

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Vogue Fashion Night Out started with a long trip. That is, me, flying across the paved sidewalk in front of the Elysées Palace as the police prepared for the president’s arrival. My large SLR Canon flew out of my bag and I landed with full force on one knee. Several men dressed in a white version of this uniform came scurrying to my aid as E scraped me off the pavement and I tried to disappear in shame. They were a bit concerned, the presidentwas on his way, and there I sat, blood spurting from knee. They offered to bring me inside and clean me up, but I was too embarrassed. Can you imagine being too embarrassed to jump at a chance of a quick peek into the President’s palace? I was. And I was late to meet my friends Out and About In Paris and EllaCoquine for Fashion Night OUT!!!

Being the Mom, I coerced E into wearing her Grandmére’s 1956 Paris (not haute) couture dress. Stunning, chic and shockingly modern, n’est-ce pas? Since the ladies were no where to be seen I hobbled across the street where the gorgeous girls at Lancôme gave me a quick knee-cial, cleaning up the scrape. And then we were ready to go..

Another kid, with a much cooler mom, was lovin’ his hippy chic moment, posing for every camera that passed.

 

 

 

 

The men looked absolutely fabulous… even the one’s who had had no idea it was Fashion Night Out!!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But the shoes are what fascinated me, so we followed them to Roger Vivier, where we came upon none other than the queen of Parisienne chic herself… Mme de la Fressange.

The room was full of people wearing their Thursday night best, looking fabulous as they enjoyed the live music, free drinks and tempting snacks. The staff looked like they were having as much fun as the rest of us.

blurry shot... I blame the champagne

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Liquered up and ready for adventure, we headed out the door and up the Faubourg Saint Honoré where some fashion models were drawing a crowd. I’ll let you imagine how much of a crown and which model was stopped by police and asked to head back into the boutique she was working for….

 

 

ps… these lucky girls got our invitation to use for the rest of the night, as we headed home early.

Mightier than the sword

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La Dolce Vita

 

Like any good soldier, I pay great attention to my weapons, and being a writer, that would be my pen. I love my writing tools.

As a blogger, I depend mostly on high tech tools, like the iPad, which fits perfectly into all my bags and seems to have been made for the Parisian café culture. I love it. To a point. Because, as cool as it is, it is missing the art and the beauty of the written word. There is nothing more luxurious than having the time to sit in a Paris café, take out one’s pen and begin to right on a smooth, lovely paper. And there is really nothing like going to the mailbox and finding a long, handwritten note among the stack of bills.

The French take their pens pretty seriously. In grade school children are expected to learn proper penmanship, using a fountain pen. This is not a quirky little habit of the über rich, it is required by the public school system and It is a big deal when your child gets his/her first fountain pen at about 7 years of age. Lamy makes some really great “starter pens” (12.90€) for young students that are wooden, not terribly expensive, easy to handle and easy to replace at just about any corner stationary store as your kid looses first one, and then the other, and another, and… As the kids get older, they tend to stick with Lamy for school, graduating to the brighter, sleeker models that many adults like. I assume that they pick them up when replacing the umpteenth Lamy lost by le petit.

Beyond the school yard, its a wide, open field full of fun, fantasy pens. If you look beyond the Lamy section at any tabac or stationary store, like the one by the artist Ben (12.99€), in his signature black, with witty French sayings like, “Write between the lines.” Or trés fille fille Inès de la Fressange models (15€) with graphic flowers and a modern touch.

 

Being deprived all the fun fashion accessories available to us ladies, les garçons tend to get very serious about their pens (and watches, but that is another article altogether). Mr French loves shopping at Mora on the rue de Tournon in the 6th, a traditional family business where you can find the latest models, as well as an excellent selection of vintage pens from the most respected houses like Waterman, Pélikan and SJ Dupont (70€ on up…).

As for me, in 1992 I had a very nasty accident involving a leather purse and a leaky fountain pen. The ink won and I have been a strictly ball point girl ever since. I recently developed a somewhat unhealthy attachment to a Delta, Dolce Vita (195€). The pen is the perfect shade of orange to go with my collection. It comes from Italy and it is an absolute delight in hand; perfectly weighted, ideally balanced and wonderfully smooth to the touch. Now if only it could do some of my writing for me…

Da king…

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While in Botswana the manager of San Camp, Mercedes, served pili pili ho ho, a Kenyan hot sauce made from chili peppers and gin. As much as I love French cuisine, I miss some heat, and I loved it so much that she shared the recipe. As soon as I returned, I needed to see a man about some peppers. A visit to the Saint Denis market was required.

At the market I treated myself to an ear of roasted corn and some oriental pastries dripping with honey. A holiday for my taste buds. Happily sated and the peppers safely in my bag, I took some time to visit the famous Basilique de Saint Denis, where the French buried their Kings and Queens. I hadn’t been in probably 25 years and on my previous visit I had not realized that this is where Dagobert had been laid to rest.

Miss Marie

Dagobert was the first king to be buried in the Basilique Saint Denis, sometime around the year 640. Ha was considered to be a good king and he made something of an impression on popular culture. Such an impression, in fact, that today 1400 years after his birth, in pre-schools across the globe, little French children sing about the Good King Dagobert who put his panties on inside out. He also had holes at his elbows, in his tights and was so filthy the grime looked like a beard growing on his face. Thankfully he had his good buddy Saint Eloi to point out all his little short comings and to give him the shirt off his back; along with the tights, the soap, and the money to replace whatever he needed. Its a long song. Dagobert needed a lot of help and Saint Eloi was a great sport, although I am not sure how he responded to Dagobert’s request to take his place by the devil’s side for eternity. The king’s privilege should only go so far….

Pili pili ho ho; fill a bottle with chili peppers, cover it to the top with gin, then let it sit for 6 months. Add dry sherry as needed.

Le Bon Roi Dagobert

 

 

Stepsister syndrome

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Every girl has them… the pair of utterly gorgeous, to-die-for, more expensive than she ever should have spent of a pair shoes that are sitting in her closet mocking her. Perhaps they were a sale too good to pass up, or a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, the attempt to console a broken heart, or a lovely gift. Whatever the reason, these incredibly fantastic, dreamy shoes sit there and mock because as wonderful as they are, the girl can’t wear them. Like one of the evil step sisters, the magic slippers simply don’t fit, they are too small, or too tight, too high, or too outrageous to ever actually be worn. It breaks her heart.

I got my stepsister shoes quite innocently. We were preparing for NYC last May when I mentioned to Mr French that I did not have any decent walking flats for our trip. We were on the rue du Faubourg Saint Honoré running an errand at the time, and just as I said this, he noticed a fantastic antique mirror inside a shop. I didn’t have time to warn him that it was not an antique boutique before he was inside, with the intent to shop. We were in a shoe store. And not just any shoe store, it was THE shoe store, it was Roger Vivier.

Heading upstairs to see more of the design, Mr French soon started looking at the shoes and one thing led to another and before I knew it we were walking out the door with an Audrey Hepburn worthy masterpiece in python skin. The shoes fit. Perfectly. In the shop.

That Monday I shared my acquisition with the Yoga Yenta, telling her that I had some gorg new walking shoes for NYC.

A killer silhouette

“Oh no,” she moaned “try them first, Sylvia, I have a pair and after ten minutes that signature buckle of his digs a hole into my foot.”

I did not believe her, but I listened, wearing them on a quick errand to the dry cleaners. 10 minutes later I was home and my feet were bleeding; in three different places. I took them back to the shop and they were sent out to be stretched. I tried them again. This time only one area suffered, on top where the buckle digs in with each step, just as the YY had warned. I don’t blame Roger. I see numerous chic Parisiennes sauntering through the city streets with his iconic buckle. I blame it on my peasant ancestry and stubby toes. The shoe won’t fit. Its devastating.

Of course, I mean this in a relative way. No one is sick, and my life is pretty great without new shoes, but this was a pretty extravagant dream purchase and the shoes are now destined to sit in my closet well within my grasp, yet beyond my reach. Mocking me.

Roger Vivier

La rentrée

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There is not really a concept for the French rentrée in English. The Brits used to call it the beginning of the season, and Hallmark has turned it into Back to School in the US, but La Rentrée is not about school, it is about getting back to life, particularly a social life. After the long (in France, anyway) summer hiatus spent with family, everyone is back in town and ready to play. Businesses open their doors, parking spaces fill up, there is activity on the street AND the invitations start pouring in as cultural events go into full swing. The “season” has begun.

There is the Biennale antiquaires at the Grand Palais, Dali expo at the Pompidou, Parcours des Mondes at the galleries, FIAC, Dom Juan at the Comedie Française, Les Nuits Blanches, Journées de la Patrimoine and the list just goes on and on…

Today the excitement really began, when I received my very first ever invitation to Vogue’s Fashion Night Out. I have gone the past few years, but only thanks to friends and their extra invites. This year, it is My invite, in My name. I felt like Christmas had come early!!! Now, to get an invite, you really just have to be a client and this year I got a very special pair of shoes from a very special address (whose initials are NOT CL). You can also snag one by buying the Fashion Night Out edition of Vogue, so my invite is not really all that, but it makes me happy, all the same.

What do you do on Fashion Night Out and what exactly is it? Its just a glorified block party where fashion houses uncork the champagne until it flows out on the streets. Lots of young, gorgeous people are paid to show up and prance around in fabulous fashions to tempt the ridiculously rich, who are a sight to behold in their own right. If you’ve got the budget for plastic surgery, this is the place to come and collect names of which doctors do a fantastic, natural looking job for your senior years and which doctors you would like to hire for your ex’s 28 year old girlfriend’s boob job. Design students flock the streets wearing the most outrageous silhouettes to catch your eye and hoping to be ‘discovered’, or at the very least, score a spare invite.

Marketing fashion on fashion night

For me it is total eye candy and the people watching highlight of my year. I’ll be there with bells on. Perhaps even literally…

And if you’d like to join me, drop me a line, because I just got a second invite and I’d LOVE to share it with one of my faithful readers!!!

50 Shades of Red

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Uh, huhn…. you all know what book I’m referring to. Yes, THAT book. Being someone who tends to eschew popular culture, I was blissfully going through life, quite happy to ignore THAT book when it came into my life all by itself. And here are the (not quite) 50 shades of red it evoked…

Surprise when I realized my 15 yr old had brought the book home from her holidays in Canada
Shock that she was interested
Anger that her Dad had allowed the purchase
Bewilderment as she explained that all her bunk mates had read the book
Sadness that 15 yr olds are reading housewife porn
Flabbergasted that teens would fantasize about sex with an old man. In my day we read Forever, by Judy Blume, good old fashioned consensual sex between two minors.
Dismay that erotica is being sold to 15 year olds (that is the official genre printed on the back of the book)

Stunned that she’d lacked the good sense that this is something you don’t share with Mom, she’ll just confiscate it.
Pride that she was willing to share her curiosity with me
Confusion that I was angry about my 15 yr old having the book and proud that she is comfortable with sexuality at the same time
Amazed how many frustrated souls there are out there. Its not that people are reading erotica and talking about it, but that it is poorly written.

Astonished at the book’s success
Curiosity about how it will be received in France
Admiration of the author and her success
Nostalgic over the memory of the drunken lady at a chic restaurant in NYC who polled the entire room asking who had read the book. I told her that no, I had not, but she should consider getting herself some hot lingerie and a Frenchman so that she could start living it, instead of reading about it.
Wonder that it has taken so long to get from Woman’s Lib to a point when people are openly discussing their taste for erotica
Relief that people are talking about it
Concerned that women don’t know about the Secret Garden (ie, you keep it secret… no need to be taking polls in restaurants during a work meeting)
Timid about anyone knowing I have the book
Disdainful about ever actually reading it
Mischievous as I hide the book for good
Inspired to write a bit of soft porn of my own (but not for 15 yr olds!)

Intrigued by her writing style
Embarrassed as my own curiosity begins to wax
Amazed that I was never even tempted to crack the spine
Satisfied to let it sit (for now…)
Enlightened by this list
Happy that I get to live my fantasy with Mr French

Well, that’s just over 25 which is probably all the book really deserves and certainly more than anyone wants to read from me…

A solid foundation

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Lingerie shopping for that first date reminded me on my very first bra fitting in Paris. I was nearly 40, had had two children and had not changed bra sizes in a very, very long time. To be perfectly honest, I had not actually worn a bra in a very, very long time. Like an insect in metamorphosis, I was changing from a granola-munching, hairy-legged, commando-dressing Californian into me. I’d look at the moms picking up their kids at the girls’ school and, as a designer, I could not help noticing that having the proper under garments made a significant different to their lignes.

I was ready for some underwear. Remembering that my Mom had taught me to always purchase one bra for three matching panties (yes, my Mom was cool), I spent several hours strolling through the lingerie department looking for something I thought I could actually wear. I was finally ready to try on a few pretty, yet practical, everyday bras to see how they fit.

The woman at the changing room stopped me cold. “Are you sure you have the right size?”

“Oui, oui, madame.”

“Well, I’m not so sure,” she replied as she clinically took her hands and cupped them over my breast. I let out a startled squeak as my eyes popped out of my head and my feet left the ground in surprise. “You’re an A cup,” she announced loudly enough for anyone to hear. She then put her two hands on either side of my rib cage and declared me a 90. 90A. The bras in my hands were 85B, which confirms that I am an optimist.

It also confirms that I had not yet learned how important proper fitting underwear is for a chic Parisienne style. I started paying attention, and at the gym I noticed that even for a workout, the girls were all wearing properly fitting, matching underwear, just like my Mom had said. And it was not necessarily expensive, many of my Parisiennes get their Dim underwear at Monoprix for bras that give a great silhouette with a comfortable fit for everyday wear.

Since girls just wanna have fun, they also like the lacy stuff from time to time. Practical girls head to Orcanta, where they have a large selection of many different brands with a respectably diverse selection of ‘moods’ in a variety of price ranges. When I am feeling particularly up-scale and naughty, I like Marlies Dekkers, for her flattering, extra-odinarily comfortable designs that are hot enough for a girl like Fergie from the Red Hot Chili Peppers. When I am looking for luxurious fabrics with that silky feel, I head to Princesse Tam Tam. Sometimes I get so carried away that I have to remind myself that I am there to look lovely when I am dressed and need to think about how the garments flatter me and my outfits (or not). For that, Aubade has the “cheater’s panty” which I will not picture here because my Dad and my kids read this blog. Not to mention Mr French’s assistant! If I really want to splurge, and I don’t care about what I’ll be wearing on top, I look at Eres for sumptuous silks in girlie not-frilly designs that have been proven to drive men wild.

 

 

 

 

Going Live

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The problem with attempting online dating in Paris, is that if you are at all successful, then eventually, your ‘date’ is going to want to take things offline and actually meet you. Of course, that is the goal anywhere you start chatting up people online, but in Paris, chances are pretty high that you’ll be meeting a Frenchman who is used to seeing Parisiennes all day, every day.

Now, if you are a happily confident soul, this is not an issue (and you are a very lucky person) but if, like me, you are slightly complexed about your rounder than the-averag-local-girl figure and painfully aware that you are NOT a chic Parisienne, and on top of that had not dated, had not even contemplated dating, in the previous two decades, much less meet a new man for anything more adventurous than a coffee to discuss business, the thought can be overwhelmingly INTIMIDATING.

And that is exactly how I felt after Mr French and I had been ‘seeing’ each other online for a while. I wanted to meet him live, but I had no confidence and was paralysed by the simplest possible question; what do you wear on your first date with a Frenchman that you’ve never seen before, and who, more importantly, has never seen you?

Being plugged in, I posted the question online to see what the fashionistas of France had to say, and I got some fantastic advice, “Wear your favorite outfit, whatever that is. Something you feel absolutely comfortable and at ease in, something you know and that knows your body. Whatever you do, do not go out and buy something new.”

The advice continued, “Then go out and buy yourself the sexiest, most fabulous lingerie you can find. Something that you love and that makes you feel wonderful.”

Those women, like most truly chic ladies, understood that bras and underwear were not called foundation wear for nothing. They are the foundation of your style, they define your silhouette, control how your clothing falls and flows as you move and if chosen properly, they can give you a delicious secret that is visible to none, but obvious to anyone paying attention.

I started going through my closet, choosing my favorite jeans, my favorite blazer and some adorable kitten heeled boots that I simply loved. The blazer and the shoes were a color that seemed particularly appropriate for a date; chocolate. Then I went to Chantal Thomass where I picked out a little (teeny, tiny, even) something in a warm chocolate satin with laces. Not lace, but laces.

A week later it was D-Date. I am not crazy. I did not know this person and I had met him online. All this build up and angst was about a coffee date. We’d be in a crowded room together for as little as 15 minutes and a maximum of two hours if things went exceedingly well. Being the old-fashioned girl that I am, there is no way that anyone but me was going to be seeing my underwear that day. But it worked like a charm, and I walked out my front door feeling very comfortable in my old jeans, yet standing tall with my little secret…

 

Bonjour Paris !!!

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We’re home!!! To be honest, my blog is post dated, so we’ve been home for an entire week and got to enjoy the canicule. It was glorious to have a bit of heat after our dismal Paris summer!

Sorbet from Pierre Hermé... no line and virtually guilt free!!!

So, what is it like, coming home to Paris? Well, if you have to say good bye to Africa or any great adventure, knowing that you’ll soon be saying Bonjour, Paris does make the pill that much easier to swallow. If you’re a paranoid freak like myself, you will be very relieved to come home and find that your flat has not been broken into, because home invasion is the number one crime in the City of Lights and it is particularly popular over les vacances.

 

Along with the relief comes an overwhelming sense of mud-wallowing, tail-wagging joy, because it is mid-August and the city is nearly empty, opening up a delicious playground to discover and fall in love with all over again.

 

There is a sinfully tempting selection of note-worthy restaurants that are usually too packed to even attempt in the regular season. This week we just walked up to and were immediately seated on the terrasse at the fabulous Le Comptoir du Relais and the mouth-watering La Cantine du Troquet Dupleix. Both featuring a enlightened menu of light, scrumptious dishes to choose from, all 100% healthy and guilt free. Like Mr French’s cold beet soup with anchovies at Le Comptoir, or my grilled razorback clams at La Cantine.

Even the street art got in the mood...

And parking spaces!!! Everywhere. One night Mr French called on his way home from the office, “It is gorgeous out. Get dressed, we’re going on a date.” 15 minutes later he was downstairs and we were headed for a lovely evening, topped off by a romantic stroll at the foot of Sacer Coeur. Like a true rive guache Parisienne, I had not been there in eons, so I was swept away by the romance of the illuminated,  rain bleached basilica surrounded by couples hand-in-hand, tourists clamouring for a view of the Eiffel Tower as it went into sparkle mofe on the hour and one really, really bad street singer who provided the perfect comic relief for an enchanted evening in Paris.

 

 

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