Happy ThatDay

photo 2Mr French and I have a long standing tradition of doing absolutely nothing for Valentine’s Day. IN* his words, “Why would anyone want to go out for a preset menu of foie gras and sea scallops?” Add a coupe of champagne and a red fruit based dessert and that’s exactly what you’ll find on most of the Valentine’s menus in the city.

Yesterday while I was home working, the intercom buzzed. On the security screen I could see a rain soaked young man, beads on water rolling off his motorcycle helmet. “I have a delivery,” he announced, “from Marie Helene de Taillac.” I hadn’t ordered anything, but the name rang a bell. De Taillac? De Taillac!!! MHdT is a jewelry designer, a woman whose work I admire tremendously. I buzzed him in, my brain racing at the possibilities and in a nanosecond I was chiding my Frenchman for his ridicukous generosity, while applauding him at the same time. While I thought it was unnecessary of him to cave to convention and get me an extravagant (MHdT only does extravagant) gift, I was feeling hand clapping happy that he had.

photo 1You have never, ever imagined a woman so sad at receiving a hand delivered box of Ladurée macarons. I mean, I was thrilled. What a great marketing campaign, delivering a box of sweets to your sweetest clients. But for a few minutes I had been dreaming in jewel tones. I stood there thrilled and disappointed and feeling like a very silly girl.

Last night over dinner, everyone had a good laugh at the image of me standing there. photo 3And I can’t say if I have MHdT to thank, or a little bit of spoiling was coming my way, but this afternoon the intercom buzzed and a rain soaked girl announced, “I have a delivery for Madame French.” I buzzed her in and she arrived at the door with a stunning bouquet of jewel toned blooms.


More birthday celebrations

Screen shot 2013-12-13 at 10.35.11 AMA few weeks ago I got an email from the Royal Monceau hotel, one of my favorite hotels in Paris.  I first got to know the Royal Monceau when I was testing spas last winter and it quickly became my favorite hotel in Paris. I am not sure what make s the place so special to me. The clean, modern decor is absolutely forgettable, but there is something in the air… perhaps it is their fine attention to detail, serving coffee in cups I’d love to have in my home… or the art book shop with the best (and most expensive) Screen shot 2013-12-13 at 10.34.53 AMsouvenirs of Paris… and certainly it must have something to do with the friendly staff. They even have a weekly newsletter called Art for Breakfast that fills me in on the highlights of the week’s local art scene. AND they happen to have the best spa in Paris with a somewhat serious lap pool!

Needless to say, I was intrigued when I learned they had a private movie theater that they would be opening to the public for semi-private screenings for a Sunday Night film club, to be enjoyed with a glass of champagne (or gourmet fruit juices) and Pierre Hermé popcorn. It seemed like a great story to cover, so I called asking for a press visit and was invited, with a guest last Sunday.

Screen shot 2013-12-13 at 10.35.40 AMMr French would be in China and I knew I’d be busy Monday night, so this seemed like the perfect way to celebrate my birthday with Em. The only hiccup with the movie night is that they can not guarantee the film you’ll be seeing until a few days before the event, so I had it in my mind we’d be seeing Chocolat, as announced in their program, but our invitation informed us we’d be spending the night with Bond in Skyfall. Not that I was disappointed about an evening watching Daniel Craig, but y mid took a few moments to make the leap from lazily romantic, provencial France, to sexy, hot Shanghai.

Due to a lingering good bye kiss with Mr French, holiday traffic jams and those horrible people who are still demonstrating against gay marriage, we arrived only a few minutes before the show. Our coats were whisked off our shoulders and we were shown to the ticket booth before being escorted to the drinks bar where a man with a wicker basket offered us sweet or savory popcorn.

Screen shot 2013-12-13 at 10.35.23 AMThe theater is large, seating about 100, with huge, leather arm chairs and tables that fold up to hold your refreshments. Em and I immediately felt like we were in our living room and sprawled out, taking off our shoes and even putting our stocking feet on the neighboring chairs for a comfortable evening in front of the big screen.

A film at the Royal Monceau is 40€. A film on the nearby Champs Elysée is 12€ and a glass of champagne in a luxury hotel is 20€, so would the splurge be worth it? I think its a great place for a cosy date on a freezing winter night, or a great option for getting the entire family out of the house. There is something to be said about feeling like you’re in the comfort of your home without the isolation of it. There is also the pleasure of being out in public while escaping the intense, Parisian cinema crowd.

The Royal Monceau offers a second option, even more romantic option, the Dinner Royale, which for 95€ includes the champagne cinema experience followed by a 2 course meal at the Michelin starred La Cuisine restaurant and I’m thinking that this maybe what we do around Valentine’s day season, which we never celebrate officially, but I like to honor in some little way, getting my girlie on… In the meantime I had a wonderful birthday evening with my dear darling Em who charmed my socks off by dressing up for the evening and then following me on a mad-capped adventure to buy an illegal laser beam (coveted cat toy) from the Africans at Trocadero, as the police looked on, a pickpocket gypsy made an pathetic attempt at thievery and an Eastern European souvenir salesman lent a helping hand.




La Vie Romantique…

I can’t speak for every French man, I’ve only dated a few, but living with my French man has been somewhat, dare I say très, romantique….. Not that he should get all the credit for it. I mean, how hard can it be to make a girl’s heart swoon when the stage set is on a café terasse, a flûte of champagne on the table, cobbled stones lay below and a church is lit in the background? And if he’s really luck a jazz band will set up, providing the perfect sound track, leaving very little work for him to do in the wooing department. Occasionally he goes a little bit further, offering me romantic cards calling me his dear, his bunny, his cabbage and his flea. Or coming home with a blue heart shape album of Elvis Presley songs that you can listen to on my Facebook page.

It’s a lovely rêverie, but the Musée de la Vie Romantique isn’t about that kind of romantic, its about the Romanticism cultural movement of the 19th century. It is the movement that brought us artistic geniuses like Beethoven, Liszt, Turner and Constable. In France, Géricault, Delacroix, Chopin, de Musset and George Sand were all part of this era, and the museum is dedicated to them. Particularly to Madame George Sand who wrote over thirty novels and whose collection of art and artifacts fills two rooms.

As an idea, Romanticism was a revolt against Industiralization and confining social norms, in practice it inspired everything from politics to the arts to the sciences. As far as home decor was concerned, this was a very dark period, with rich, deep colors in a conflicting patterns filling rooms to suffocation. And they had odd habits, like making jewelery out of human hair. It is all very normal with a slight tinge of the horrific. It is not surprising that this period inspired works like Dracula and Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.

Outside the museum guests can enjoy tea or a light snack under white parasols in the rose encircled gardens, reminding one of the more contemporary definition of Romantic….

ps, Impromptu is a great movie about George Sand and her torrid relationship with Chopin.

The Dress, part 2

Then we really went wild, jumped into a taxi and headed off for the Faubourg Saint Honoré. We entered boutique after boutique; it was as if time had stopped and we were running through a frozen film set. People came to life as we approached, everyone else blurring into the background. I tried on a slinky skintight sexier-than-peeled-grapes dress that looked great on me, and I relished watching Mr French eat me alive with his eyes (thank you for that, Mr Raf Simons). Almost everything seemed to fit, and as sales person after sales person entered the dressing rooms, I quite pleased I happened to be wearing my very best purple silk lingerie for the day.

Then we arrived at Prada. I was never much of a fan, finding the large metal logos on her handbags such a turn-off that I never looked beyond to the clothing. But the shop was there, and we were having fun, so we walked in and I asked the burly, rather intimidating security guard to point us towards dresses.

Downstairs, a lovely lady named Magali, asked if she could help us. I explained our challenge and she set to work, bringing me dress after dress. I did not know this at the time, but Magali is an image consultant, and spends her free time helping Parisiennes learn to dress. It was as if a good fairy had waved her wand, each dress was more beautiful than the next. It is no surprise that Miuccia Prada was nominated for the Design Awards for her spring 2013 collection. And she designed the dresses for Baz Lurhmann’s The Great Gatsby, adding a little capsule collection for the event. I was spoiled with an exceptionally rich collection.

I tried on a sublime finely knit black silk tunic with 1920’s fringe on the bottom that swayed seductively with every step. Then came a silk taffeta princess’ dress in rich blue with large green and ivory dots, a tight bodice and full skirt. A fun, 1950’s inspired white-trimmed black dress with a full skirt, v-neck and sleeves that rested just off the shoulders, followed by a shiny black silk dress with kimono accents that ended about mid-calf. It all fit, and it all liked good, I could tell by the look in Mr French’s eye as he sat there patiently waiting for me to don one dress after the other.

Finally, I tried on a grey silk dress that had been cut like it might have been made for Joan from the hit show Mad Men. Steel grey and sleeveless with a long pencil skirt, a fitted bodice and a rounded scooped-back opening nearly to my waist. The fabric was airbrushed with a large patch of white that through the skirt and across the bodice where some mauve Japanese style flowers printed on to the silk taffeta. Seeing it on there was no doubt. We had found The Dress.


The Dress, part 1

Last week I referred to a certain shopping trip for a special dress, but I was so distracted by the prostitute scene at a swanky hotel that I forgot to talk about The Dress. Or rather, Shopping for The Dress.

Between the two of us Mr French and I have five children (I know, this is an odd segueway, but bear with me). This is probably not the first time I mention this overwhelming fact. Five is a pretty big number, and it amazes me that we are responsible for all those little souls. They’re mostly grown, but we’re seven, so there is plenty of turbulence; emergency hospital visits, existential angst, growing pains and ski accidents are just a few of the bumps that have come our way in the few months. But right now, this week, everyone is doing ok. It’s amazing, and we are both savouring the moment, which is why Saturday was so damn fun.

We headed out the door to run errands; the cobbler, tailor, dry cleaner and the stationary seller were all on our list. As I Iocked the door, Mr French asked if I had brought the window dimensions along, we really should look into getting some curtains. I had not, but then again, neither had he.

Our errands brought us to the Bon Marche, and after getting ink for his pen, he suggested a visit to the clothing department for The Dress. I need a dress because we have been invited to a dinner party. In a palazzo. In Venice. Tenue de Soirée is what the very sober, elegantly engraved invitation read. I had called the hostess, and she had confirmed that she’d be wearing a long dress.

My first thought had been Yves Saint Laurent’s tuxedo jacket. I mean doesn’t everyone immediately think of the YSL tuxedo jacket when having a fashion emergency? No? Well, I’ve been thinking of this jacket for years, and this was the perfect once-in-a-lifetime excuse. I know it’s not a long dress, but it is THE Style Icon of my generation. I went to my nearest YSL and was quickly jolted back to reality: in my excitement I’d forgotten that the brand is now Saint Laurent. Again. After discovering that there were no jackets for me in all of France (yes, they took the time to look!) I complained to the manager about the name change, explaining that I was a traditional kind of girl.

“Then you should love it!” He protested, filling me in on the history of the brand and letting me know that Hedi Slimane, their new Creative Director, was taking the brand back to its origins, using the original name and the original logo. I didn’t leave with my smoking, but I did walk out that door convinced that Saint Laurent has some of the best customer service in Paris.

I would not be getting my dream garment. Not wanting to spend a fortune on a dress I’d have very few occasions to wear in this lifetime, I was determined to visit my old friends at Reciproque, a consignment shop that has a room of gowns. My friend Out and About in Paris had an even better suggestion: La Femme Ecarlate, a gown rental service. But everytime I’d suggest a visit to either shop, Mr French would simply grunt and head to an art exhibit.

So we were looking, but I was not shopping. Because the party is in Italy and there may actually be a spot of sunshine, I was hoping to wear a bit of color. At the Bon Marche, in an area featuring new, international designers we spotted a dress we both liked by someone from Lebanon. And then another, and another. Enough choices that it was worth disturbing the saleswoman to try on a few pieces. I went into the dressing room as she brought me the wrong dress, and then one that was two sizes too small, before confessing she didn’t have any of the dresses in my size. This made me feel fat and kind of grumpy.

Around the corner Alexander McQueen had a gorgeous tuxedo jacket with exquisite tailoring, the lapels integrated into the body of the vest. Even better, there was a dress version of the design. The designer, or creative director as they are now known, Sarah Burton, knows women and our bodies. I slipped into the dress, and it was a perfect fit. I liked they way it felt, they way it moved and the way Mr French looked at me wearing it. But it was black and stopped at the knees, and I didn’t really see the point since I already have something similar. At least I wasn’t feeling so grumpy any more.

Then we really went wild, jumped into a taxi and headed off for the Faubourg Saint Honoré…


Reciproque – 93 rue de la Pompe, 16e – 01 47 04 30 28

La Femme Ecarlate – 42, avenue Bosquet, 7e – 01 45 51 08 44

Le Saint Valentin

heart, by Patrick Roger

Its Valentine’s Day and you’re probably going to be hearing a lot of sappy talk about love and romance, but that’s not me. I’m a pragmatic girl and all that public waxing is for someone else. Unless we’re talking chocolate. Then, I’m in!

As a kid, I thought I hated chocolate and was pretty proud of being different like that. At sixteen I came to Paris and stayed with a 17 year old Parisienne who had a food addiction and at night she’d sneak into the kitchen and surreptitiously gobble down the chocolate her mother had tried to hide. It was while joining her on one of those raids that I realized that the waxy, chalky, nearly flavourless planks I’d been raised on, were called Hershey bars, not chocolate bars for a reason. There I’d been telling the world I didn’t like chocolate, when I’d never actually had chocolate. At least, not real chocolate. Now that I had, I was in love!!!

My scrapbook from that trip includes the wrappers from many a Cote d’Or treat and I dedicated an entire page to the masterfully crafted chocolate elephant that was downstairs from her flat, on the Ile St Louis. Today, unless I’m on Detox, I still end each day with one square from a chocolate bar. But which bar? My favorites are;

Gerard Mulot’s mediant bar (that is not the official name, but that is what it is). As my name for it implies, this bar has lots of candied fruits and nuts sitting atop a thick slab of perfectly temper dark chocolate. And although dark chocolate can sometimes have serious bite, this one melts on the tongue with the intense chocolate flavor.

Bonnat Grand Cru chocolate bars, particularly the ones from Venezuela. I first discovered these bars at a grocery store in San Francisco. I was with Mme Beast Cadet and we’d been sent out by the men folk to get wine for the dinner they were cooking up. We choose some very fine wines, and discovered the Bonnat bars in the check out line. Without further ado, we chose a bar from each estate, knowing a serious tasting was in order.

The tablette du jour by Jean Charles Rochoux available only on Saturdays, because each bar is enriched with large chunks of the freshest, most tempting fruit he found at the market the previous Friday. When I complained to JC that the bars were messy to eat and suggested he place the fruit more evenly, he protested that the mess was part of the childish delight of enjoying bar. I’ve been a fan ever since.

Patrick Roger bars are Mr French’s favorite. Roger is famous for the elaborate chocolate sculptures of the unexpected, like hedgehogs and the Berlin Wall. One year he tried to build an elephant, much like the one I’d admired as a student, only life-sized. After three months of devoted effort the trunk collapsed and Mr Roger went into a little déprime. I’m guessing that his excellent, estate select chocolate bars are what helped revive him.

Debauve et Gallais, which I discovered on another visit from the Beast Cadets (we truly are beastly when we’re together. We spent a month testing all the chocolate shops in Paris. One a day, every day, just like vitamins! Being purists, we’d compare their bars, which had to be 72% or more, and dark chocolate caramels, if they had them. Remarkably few chocolate shops had them, often telling me they were candies, not chocolates, which I still do not understand. A candied fruit dipped in chocolate is a chocolate, but caramel in chocolate is not? Another reminder I’ll never be truly French. In any case, we had a winner in Debauve et Gallais. Which makes sense. People say I’m something of a princess and this had been Marie Antoinette’s favorite chocolatier. In addition to their superb chocolate covered salted caramels, aka le Duo, they have hard to resist champignons (mushrooms) with chocolate covered caramel caps and marzipan feet. They make bars up to 90%, with rich, intense flavours that stay long in the mouth. Like a Valentine’s Day kiss…

Joyeux St Valentin!!!!

Paris on a snowy day

vf disponible (et plus tôt drole) en bas de la page

M French was feeling rather romantic, this weekend, playing hookie from the Dali exhibition at the Centre Pompidou and inviting me on a long walk through a snowy Paris.

Obviously, I started at the Flore, where it was easy to get a prime seat, with every table left open for the brave, or the truly addicted (smokers), who all seemed to have stayed in bed. St Sulpice wasn’t far, the lions slumbering peacefully, not at all bothered by the cold.

Actually there seemed to be all kinds of wild beasts out enjoying a little frolick.

We ended our walk Chez Janou, a charming little provencale restaurant with a sunny cuisine that was perfect on a cold winter’s day.

M French m’a invité sur une petite balade romantique, et frigorifiée sous la neige à Paris. Bien évidement, j’ai commencé au Flore où les places étaient plus tôt faciles à trouver, sans trop de compétition pour une vue sur mer. Les fumeurs sont restés au lit. Pas loin, à St Sulpice les lions dormaient, aussi, mais pas les tourists, ni les cyclists!!!


En fait, il y avait pas mal de bêtes sauvages à Paris. 

On a terminé notre balade Chez Janou, un petit restaurant provençal avec un charme chalereux, parfait pour une journée hivernale.





Cancale can cook

Our stay in Cancale was an absolute dream, with unexpected great weather and absolute calm. The weather, of course, was pure luck, but the peace and tranquility was thanks to  Les Maisons de Bricourt. We stayed at their Cottage Les Rimains, which is delightfully far from the maddening crowd, over looking the bay. Each of the four rooms has paned windows which frame a spectacular view of the bay, reminding us that nature is the ultimate masterpiece.

I was a bit surprised that no one offered to take our bags upstairs. This is a Relais et Châteaux, after all, but it was the only hitch of our entire stay and not being a whimp, it was not a big deal, but being a reporter, I feel the need to mention it in case it would bother others. After getting over the spectacular view, we saw that there were treats waiting for us; home baked biscuits, fresh apples, exotic dried fruits and Chouchen, a local honey-based liqueur.

Every morning we’d rise and head through the garden, beyond the white picket gate to begin our run on the GR34, water lapping the foot of the cliff.

Breakfasts were spectacular, whether served in our room with country ham and local cheese, or enjoyed after a run in the town square at the Grain de Vanille, Les Maisons de Bricourt’s salon de thé. Our taste buds were dancing with new discoveries; from the first bite of the morning’s pommé pastry to the bulgar powder we added to our yogurts.

On Saturday night we had reservations at LMdB’s Michelin starred restaurant, Le Coquillage, set in a 1930’s Chateau Richeux, several kilometers from the Cottage. We were familiar with the chef thanks to his spice shop in St Malo, which we had discovered on our last visit to the region. Being a spice loving, chili pepper-heat deprived Californian, I was an Olivier Roellinger fan before we took the five steps up to the front door.

A basket of fresh autumn squashes greeted us, with an invitation from the kitchen’s gardener to help ourselves. If I’d dared, they’d have been the perfect decoration for this week’s Thanksgiving dinner, but they were somewhat larger than my elegant little clutch, and I’m ultimately a fashion first kind of gal.

The place was literally jumping with staff and diners. Everyone happy and relaxed, fashion ranging from jeans and boyfriends sweaters to Chanel suits. The food phenomenal. We both chose the a St Jacques (sea scallop) tartare for our entrées and I’m still getting a thrill from the hit of crunch and flavour I’d get as bits of citrus exploded between my teeth. Mr French’s plat was abalone, fished from the bay by a certain Phillipe, while I spoiled myself with lobster grilled in the chateau’s fireplace.

There was an entire cart of mini pastries to choose from, most of them featuring excitingly fresh flavours and spices, with a few traditional rich offerings thrown in for good measure.

After the meal we curled up in leather club chairs, sipping herbal teas and digestifs, by a fireplace in the salon before being escorted “home” by our driver. Yes, we had a driver. The Chateau Richeux has 13 rooms and suites just above the dining rooms, but for guests staying further afield at LMdB’s cottage, they offer a free driving service for dinner, keeping the roads safe for everyone. Not a bad idea after an apéro, a bottle of wine and the digestifs!

We ended the night lulled to sleep by the melody of the sea. Sweet dreams afloat.

Les Maisons de Bricourt / +33 (0)2 99 89 64 76 |

Sally sells seashells

One year ago last week, Mr French and I PACSed, which is to say we entered into a civil union, which is hard to explain, but basically, we’re officially almost-married and since I’ll jump on any excuse to party, it seemed the perfect excuse for a celebration.

Given last month’s schedule with family obligations, holiday plans and business trips that kept us apart for nearly three weeks, the only real way to celebrate was to escape to a place where we could calmly sit and gaze lovingly into one another’s eyes sleep, preferably far from our children and their constant reminders of what pathetic old saps we are.

Remembering a good friend and his excitement over his 50th birthday weekend at Olivier Roellinger’s hotel and restaurant, Les Maisons de Bricourt, I called up the folks in Cancale. They had a cottage room available, perched on the cliffs over looking the oyster farms. Sounded good to me, so I booked.

The folks in Cancale? Can what? Canale is a charming little fishing village on the Brittany coast, but few people ever hear of it because it is forever in the shadow of its two imposing neighbors; St Malo and the Mont St Michel. This is too bad for all those who merely drive through on their way from one Heritage site to the next, but fantastic for those who stop and can have the place to themselves.

acres of oysters, slurp!!!

In France, the town is known for its oyster production with farms that stretch out for miles and miles into the bay. The beds disappear completely at high tide and then reappear., *poof*, like magic!

The GR 34, an idyllic hiking trail with stupendous views, follows the coast from here to St Malo and we could see the trail head tempting us with promises of health and well-being, like Ursula tempted Ariel. Instead of going for a walk, we opted for only restaurant still serving lunch, Au Vieux Safran. Tourist central with a line of restaurants, I was not expecting much, so I was floored by the perfection coming from the kitchen. My shrimp entrée melted on my palette with hits of bay and a touch of salt, the moules were beyond reproach, while my fries were crisp on the outside and utterly creamy on the inside. I didn’t try Mr French’s meal because he chose andouille, and I will never be French enough to enjoy ammoniac notes of urine with my pork products. When I complimented the waitress on the incredibly good freshness of our meal, she reminded me of Cancale’s privileged situation ‘entre terre et mer‘ and made it clear that there could be no excuse for bad food in this part of Brittany.

Properly fed, and no longer terrified that we’d return to a town with absolutely no dining options, we at last headed to the GR34, our silhouettes hand in hand, disappearing into the woods.

Au Vieux Safran / 2 Quai Gambetta / 02 99 89 92 42


Lèche vitrine*

a Street reNamed Happiness

Growing up, I was not the girl with movie star posters on her walls. Luke Skywalker did not melt my butter and I had no dreams of cycling off into space with my very own ET. I was a grounded girl I figured, my feet firmly planted in the rich California earth. Then the Goodfellas came out and I nearly swooned for Ray Liotta. Turns out, I like the bad boys. The really bad boys.

Which is when I realized that us girls, we all have a very particular taste of our own. Someone at adopteunmec.com must like bad boys, too, because she has helped he online dating site go brick and mortar, opening up a pop-up shop for single women.

Pilot Mec, I always wanted the Barbie plane!

Like human Barbies, the available men are displayed in large, pink boxes, with detailed instructions on the side just waiting to be unwrapped by an anxious young girl under the Christmas tree.

As I walked into the shop, I felt like Barbie herself, the entire Matel universe brought to life with a pilot, veterinarian, gym buff, and surfer dude. As I clapped my hands in glee, I turned to see Thomas, the event photographer who I met last week and who also happens to be a very good friend of La Fashionista (Mr French’s daughter).

“I’m…. I’mmmmmm….. here for work,” he stuttered, pointing to his camera and very hard-to-miss tripod.

“Yes, me too,” very glad to have OutandAboutinParis by my side as chief witness to my innocent curiousity.

Monsieur Surfer Dude

At 15h the place was humming like a night club, crowds spilled out on to the rue du Bonheur, with live music spun by Mr Techni, an open bar and plenty of treats to seduce the girls. Adopteamec gets girls. There was chocolate, and bubble gum pink tagadas, and mouth satisfying Magnum bars to pleasure their fantacies as they popped into a box with the tux clad Mr Chic, or the plugged in Mr Geek.

I had been shooting the IHT early that morning, so I thought it would be fun to get the guys with the paper. Opening the box of Mr Chic, I expected a look of utter horror. I am probably closer to his mother’s age than his own. But this is France where age matters less, and I was greeted with a warm invite.

Le Bar, serving teddy bears, red heads and geeks

As stereotyoes would have it, Mr Chic held the paper up to pose, Mr Geek started reading and I had to pry it from his hands, while Mr Muscle just held it up to the plastic box, the concept of reading well beyond his imagination.

If you’re looking for a bad boy of your own, Adopteamec is at 15 rue des Halles in the 1st until next week, before hitting the road for the dating capitals of Europe…


*Lèche Vitrine means window shopping, but translate as Window licking

*Adopt a Dude

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