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.

A Day Off

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The kids were on school break last week and Mr French was away on business. With E preoccupied preparing for her Bac exams and The Bug visiting family in sunny California I had a rare bit of leisure time on my hands. The skies were a leaden grey, mingling with relentless rain and my Parisiennes were almost all away visiting far-flung family or on exotic vacations to wonderfully alluring places like Mauritius, so I was having an unhealthy dose of holiday envy. It was time for a break. But a working girl has got to work, so I took the morning off, picked up some out of town guests and headed to the rue Denoyez in the 20th arrondissement for a little cultural disorientation and a wild collection of street art.

We were really lucky to catch a tagger in the act just as we arrived. Unfortunately, he is from Barcelona and does not speak French. I do not speak Spanish. We tried a bit of English but the most I got out of him was that he has two names; a real name and his tag name, both of which I have forgotten.

We visited his gallery, Mind, where I snapped a few shots of the paint cans that reminded my of photos I had taken at my tailor’s. The canvases in the gallery were small, which must take a considerable amount of skill, but inside on the walls, I found them to be a bit sad and without any of the power of good graffiti. them continued up the street to admire the pique-assiette parking poles, pochoir street art and more graffiti. It was colorful and bright. The perfect ant-depressant to combat the dreary grey spring we’ve had this year. We had fun identifying Rimbaud, finding Batman and admiring a particularly twisted montage of decapitated Barbie dolls exposed to the elements in an emptied out hole of a tired old building.

The pièce de résistance came as we ended our walk and turned right on to the rue Ramponeau, heading towards the Belleville market. There was a truly impressive example of black and white graffiti art that we discovered just as a femme walked by in brightly clad African fashion. Confirming that you don’t need museums to enjoy great art. 

 

NON… arrête!

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There is a new book out about parenting your child like a Parisienne. I have not read the book, but the reviews talk a lot about how parents here use a stern voice to get their message across and inspire obedience. This is only half true. That stern voice comes with the evil eye, and is backed by a swift smack upside the head. Which is something I’d like to do to a whole whack of people these days who are refusing to use their common sense or basic courtesy.

photo courtesy of Metromole

Recently, lovers have been inspired by somebody from somewhere who had this very romantic, incredibly unique idea of taking a padlock, decorating it with his and his lover’s names and then locking the symbol of their love to a fence, throwing away the key, to rust away for posterity at the bottom of a river bed.

10’s of 1000’s of visitors have caught on to the idea of fixing “love” locks on to the bridges and monuments of Paris. Which is cute. But not really. There is a big debate about the practice these days. For starters, the locals find it ugly and are particularly dismayed by those who tie bits of trash to their locks to make them stand out. A torn bit of garbage to highlight one’s symbol of love? It boggles the mind and the people who live here don’t particularly appreciate you leaving a permanent trace on their city. I’ve heard it being compared to acting like male dogs marking their territory. Romantic, n’est-ce pas?

But now the issue goes beyond what people like or do not like. The locks are destroying the bridges. Even worse, some egotistical jerks have decided their love should stand out and they are attaching the locks to antique, ornate fences and even signed works of art on the Pont Alexandre III. What ignorant, self-absorbed jerks think that it is ok to tag public property that is so beautiful, even taggers do not consider the site to be fair game? There is, today, a gorgeously crafted, bronze crab on that very bridge, with tacky, rusting locks attached to its leg. Non merci!

There are a lot of locks on several bridges now and I have even heard they adorn the Eiffel Tower. People are putting locks on top of locks. Locks, of course, are made of metal and metal is a becoming a valuable commodity these days, so now, some savvy metal collectors are coming along, cutting out entire chucks of the fences to collect the “love” locks and melt them down to be sold as scrap. Which is Paris poetry at its best, a symbol of love ending up in the junk yard. Almost as good as a slap up side the head…. BAFFfff

Everyone; STOP putting locks on the bridges of Paris. As an alternative, I propose a pair of handcuffs… seriously. Never mind locking a symbol of your love in some far off city. What could be sexier than chaining your special someone directly to you? The French jeweler Dinh Van has the perfect pair that can be worn all day, everyday, with a model for men and women so you can even have a matching pair. The perfect symbol of your love and a memory of Paris that is sure to melt hearts without destroying our bridges, or risking the ire of a French Mom.

Dinh Van

The debate

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It is still the Presidential elections in France and last night was the great debate, which I didn’t find so great, but I did find rather fun to watch. French political debates are very different from my memories of US Presidential debates. Instead of standing officially at lecterns, each candidate is comfortably seated, with their notes. They face each other, not the voters, which helps tensions rise and makes for some great tv moments. As does the fact that the candidates do not have a set time limit for each answer. From an anglo-saxon perspective, this is not a debate, but a moderated argument, that turns into an intellectual free for all.

If I had any doubts as to the tone of the debate, I had only to look at the stage set, which closely resembled an electrified, post-modern gladiator arena from the days when Astérix and Obelisk were tormenting their Roman landlords in a Paris that was known as Lutèce.

Two journalist join the candidates at a table that, in keeping with the ancient roman theme, resembles a gladiator’s shield when seen from above. Their official role is to ask the questions, balance each candidate’s speaking time and try to keep the debate moving forward. Their unofficial role is to prevent it from coming to blows.

In true forum style, candidates quickly go beyond the gallic shrug and show their latin roots as they pound fists on the table, point fingers and throw insults at one another. And what never ceases to amuse my anglo upbringing is that they interrupt each other. Loudly and for an extended period of time, so that voters, hoping to be more informed, and perhaps make a decision based on some facts, never actually hear any facts.

Following another anglo tradition, my New Zealander friend Koko has an important note for the socialist party’s candidate; your party’s colors are red, not blue, red. Change the glasses, get a new tie and for heaven’s sake man, show some pride in your team! Nobody, but nobody in the French press has mentioned this little faux pas, so my best guess is that in France, this is not a faux pas. Red is simply not ‘in’ this year and no matter what your political allegiance may be, this is Paris… fashion first!

After talking to Koko, I made a point of noticing that the two journalists on the set. They were both clad in a judicial, neutral black. Très chic…

Hermes

Your new summer tote

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When I first noticed the Vanessa Bruno tote, it was not because I had a great love of fashion, but because it was literally everywhere. It would have been hard to miss it. The following season there was a scarf that had a similar following (knit with thin, bright-colored stripes on a dark grey background) and there have since been many more fashion fads.

Last month I saw a new fad emerging. It is a lovely, duo-toned leather tote, with a gold zipper that runs horizontally, about 2/3s down the bag and has two rather large, leather tassels. The faux-leather is often brightly colored in green, salmon or yellow jewels tones, sometimes balanced with a sedate beige and it is occasionally stamped with a faux animal print, imitating croc or snake skin.

The first time I saw this bag I was on the rue de Babylone, just steps from my very first fashion fad spotting, so perhaps it was the universe telling me something. I doubt it. The bag I spotted was in a gorgeous green that really caught my eye. I thought it was a very expensive designer bag. But, I was seeing it everywhere and on everyone of all ages, which is usually a sign that it is reasonably affordable. Then I started seeing it in shop windows, and sure enough, at 69€, the bag is several generations removed from a runway budget. At that price, it is clearly not leather and I wanted to know more. After visiting three or four shops and getting no answers, helpful sales girl reluctantly informed me that the bags are a crafty restyling (therefore legal) of a very expensive and very popular Celine bag.

Now, I know the argument, who wants fake, when you can have the real deal? Clearly the hundreds of parisennes I see toting this tote. Because, you see, as much as they love fashion parisiennes are a pragmatic lot and unless they are fabulously wealthy, they are not likely to invest in a luxurious, yet trendy, leather bag that they’d then be traipsing through a sandy beach and it likely to be a has been within the next 3 years. A faux-leather, not-quite-fake bag is good enough for a passing summer fancy.

I bet that you are all dying to know where you can get yours. I see them everywhere, but at this address near the Bon Marché they have the faux version, as well as more expensive ones in leather and a very helpful young sales lady who was willing to tell the truth. Happy shopping!

Basic Bazaar

May Day

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Confession. I collect dolls. I have collected dolls since I was a very young girl, then I started collecting masks, and then I opened a portrait studio. I seem to be obsessed with faces. One of my favorite dolls when I was very young was from the Kiddie Kologne collection by Matel. Sour apple, Honeysuckle, I had them all, but the one I loved was Lily-of-the-Valley, for her charming blossoms and delicate scent. I still love Lily-of-the-Valley, but today I have to settle for the flowers.

May 1st, 1561, King Charles IX received a Lily-of-the-Valley for good luck. He liked the idea and offered the same flower to all the ladies in his court. It was a very good idea and 500 years latet the tradition seems to have stuck. Probably because the lady receiving the flower is obliged to give a kiss in return, which seems to inspire quite a bit of generousity. Every year, on May Day, the streets of every town are littered with people selling bouquets of muguets, while the forests are full of people harvesting muguet on the one day it is legal to do so and even the chocolatiers get into the act, filling plastic pots with chocolate soil and adding a plastic sprig of the bloom.

When we were first dating Mr French noticed that I like white flowers in general, and I may have mentioned the Lily-of-the-Valley specifically. The weekend before ‘our’ first May Day he showed up for a date with a huge bouquet of Lily-of-the-Valley. No fillers, just lilies. There were probably 200 sprigs in the bunch. It was gorgeous. It swept me off my feet and made me feel like one of Charles IX ladies at a royal court.

Mayday, mayday

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Tomorrow is May Day and it is going to be a big political day here in Paris, with the party-who-shall-not-be-named throwing their annual fiesta at the foot of the Jeanne d’Arc statue on the rue de Rivoli. Poor Joan. Really, it was not enough that the English burned her at the stake, she had to be adopted as a symbol by the nationalist party? Did anyone ask her thoughts on the subject? I’ll be avoiding that area, as I do every year.

Not to be out done, the Presidential candidates have decided to throw some parties of their own, with Hollande (the candidate, not the country) calling for members of his party to join the unions as they walk from Denfert Rochereau to storm the Bastille. Although I presume his campaign manger will be staying home nursing a hangover, after the party he attended this weekend with Daniel Strauss-Kahn. Seriously? The week before the elections and Hollande’s men are already flirting with the world’s sleaziest flirt? Sarkozy, who seems to be arriving a bit late to the whole game, intends to take over the Trocadero, or perhaps the Champs de Mars; he wasn’t sure the last I checked Le Monde. ALthough, facing France’s military academy, L’Ecole Militaire shows there is a lot of conflict in the air.

Personally, I’d rather be visits museum, but they close for May Day. I’d rather go shopping, but the stores close, too. If the weather was nice, I’d go for a hike, but its not looking like the weather is going to be nice. Au secours…. damsel in distress!!!

The secret garden

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For a brief time, my daughters were adopted by a French grandmother. Mamie is a kind,  beautiful, incredibly elegant lady with a large flock of her own grandchildren, as well as a part time job raising funds and awareness for kidney disease, but she somehow found time for my girls and me, too. Mamie’s hair is always in a perfectly impeccable chignon, she wears stockings and once apologised for being under-dressed because she had on a pair of slacks. In the rare moments that she is not working or taking care of the grandchildren, Mamie goes to the theater and book lectures.

When Mamie would take the girls for the weekend she would give them intellectual exercises, teach them card games and cook traditional French dishes like baked endives. My kids didn’t love everything, but that knew instinctively that you don’t mess with Mamie. You finish what is on your plate, forget that computers or cellphones exist, say please, thank you and non, merci madame. Against all logic, they absolutely adored hanging out with her, and somehow managed to choke down those endives.

One evening after the girls’ father left, Mamie showed up at my door, telling me I needed a break and that I should get out of the flat. NOW. This very moment. She handed me a coat and sent me on my way with strict orders to eat something.

Later that evening, back at home with the girls safely asleep, Mamie and I had a chat.

“It is really shocking that he left. He was so in love with you, but you know, its kind of your fault a bit, too.” she informed me.

I continued to listen as she explained the concept of le jardin secret, the French woman’s secret garden. At around the age of 40, women are well advised to take a lover. You never share this with your friends, your family, or anyone has have ever breathed. Not even those who are now 6 feet under. It is your garden. Your secret garden.

Since that chat, I have had a few years to talk about it with my parisiennes and read about it in ELLE and eavesdrop on the subject in cafés. The theory is that having a secret gives you confidence, which draws people to you (people like your husband, for example). The French also believe that falling in love is the ultimate diet, so having a lover is great for the figure. And it is safe to assume that when one has a lover, she pays more attention to her looks and her wardrobe. To be brief, a woman in love looks hot.

I don’t know about your average Frenchman, but I am confident that Mr French would much rather send me to a fat farm, offer me a day at a spa and invite me on a shopping spree. This strikes me as a ridiculously complicated way to re-attract your man and perhaps there is something seriously wrong with my sense of adventure, but personally, I’d rather bring out the mink-lined handcuffs to spicy up my marriage.

The husbands, Mamie assured me, remain totally oblivious, but are unconsciously drawn closer to their wives at an age when their eyes tend to stray, looking for some young blood to make themselves feel younger. Does this ensure his fidelity? No way. If the women have a secret garden, surely they are hoeing in somebody else’s yard. The idea is that, while he may stray, he won’t stray far. And if he does leave, well, at least you will have had an adventure of your own. I am going to have to take her word on this. It is not something I can imagine for myself, but I get a girlish pleasure knowing that the very traditional, deceptively up-tight ladies I see strolling my quartier are, like Mamie, very likely to have had a secret garden adventure of their own.

The mailing list

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Our first apartment in Paris, once we finally immigrated here, was on the rue de Babylone, exactly across the street from the men’s wear department at the Bon Marché. Trés chic, n’est-ce pas?

Not that it meant anything to me. I was 20 lbs too heavy, did not own a bra and hadn’t shaved anything in decades. I was a granola eating, barely-recovered vegetarian, native Californian. The only shopping I got excited about was the organic farmer’s market on the boulevard Raspail every Sunday. I’d spend serious amounts of time explaining to the market vendors that, non, I really did not want an extra bag to separate my tomatoes from my asparagus, they could co-habitate quite happily for the 100 metres it would take to get to my front door, but the planet wouldn’t be in such great shape if everyone took a bag for each fruit they purchased. I’d get the gallic shrug and head home in my Birkenstocks.

Then one fine, blossom blooming, gorgeous spring day, the very first of the season, I opened the front door to our flat and I saw that nearly ever Parisenne, chic or otherwise, was carrying the same handbag. I am not exaggerating. Sequined bags going past to my right, sequined bags going by to my left, sequined bags going down into the Metro, sequined bags perched on the rattan café stools at my feet, sequined bags balanced on park benches directly across the street. Clearly, everyone had received a fashion alert in the night, telling them what to wear for the first warm day of the season, and I had not been on the mailing list! I felt so left out. But, like, really. I still feel the sting today. Why wasn’t I on the mailing list?

The bag was just a simple canvas tote, with sequin trim across the handles and around the base and it came in a multitude of colors. The funny thing is, until then I had never wanted to have something everyone else has and I don’t particularly like sequins, although they are starting to grow on me. I felt left out, just the same.

It didn’t take me long to learn (I lived across the street from the Bon Marché, after all) that the bag is a Vanessa Bruno, by the eponymous designer. It was the ‘it’ bag of the season and many seasons there after. In fact, you still see the same design everywhere, ten years later. One of the great things about the Vanessa Bruno tote is that it is relatively affordable for an ‘it’ bag, usually available for under 100€. It is very light, and easy to wear, making it a favorite with local high school students, their Moms, their Grandmothers and every other woman who has ever seen one.

Thanks to the Paris lifestyle, which requires walking kilometres and kilometres until your feet crumble and you must rush off for a pedicure, I lost those surplus kilos. Peer pressure from my Parisiennes had me waxing in a matter of months and I now have a lovely collection of French lingerie. I’ve taken my blinders off and allow myself to admire fine fashion, even spoiling myself with an occasional shopping trip during les soldes, but I never got a Vanessa Bruno tote. And I learned that there is no mailing list. There is Telerama, ELLE and Garance Doré, which local fashionistas follow like a diamond cutter sharpens his tools. And there are my Parisiennes who keep me on their list, which is all I really need.

Vanessa Bruno

 

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