Category Archives: Fashion

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…

 

Friday@Flore… Africa

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Today we are in the Kalahari desert, marveling at the intricate beading and treated skins worn by the nomadic San, once known as the bushmen. This remarkable community has thrived living in some of the most extreme, hostile land on earth. During our stay temperatures have gone from -7 in the morning, up to 27 by afternoon. Today, the San live a modern life style, and dress accordingly, but they are proud to share their traditions and knowledge with visitors, offering guided visits of the bush. These visits hlp them pass their quickly dying heritage on down to the younger generation, teaching us how to find water, build a fire, and dress.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Xarugke (pronounced Gah-rue-Ha) was our tracker in the central Kalahari. He’d sit at the front of our Land Cruiser, perched on a make-shift seat above the passenger side headlight, looking for tracks, and when he found something interesting, he’d hop down and start tracking, following winding lion prints through dense bush. He chose one afternoon to dress in his traditional springbok skin and share some of his culture with us.

 

 

 

 

Out on the Makgadikgadi salt pans thick woolen blankets protect against the frigid morning air, but they are quickly dropped as the sun rises.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fashion is not a silly indulgence of the West. San women spend hours embroidering bright, cheerful beads in to their springbok skin outfits, and the men’s wildebeest tops. Steenbok is the preferred leather for the men’s handbags, and they are the only garment not decorated. Perhaps because they exist to tote around poison arrows to the hunt.

 

 

 

 

I even spotted a Loubou-shman fixing a lady’s antelope skin sandals while the others were digging for scorpion.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And jewelry has an important place, with gorgeous beaded pieces being worn around the head, wrists, fingers and ankles. Anything that can be adorned, without interfering with practical daily life, is made discretely colorful. Men get to wear a jaunty ostrich feather to complete the look.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Modern uniforms have become a status symbol that family members reserve for translators and guides, while their children get practical winter hats and wear sensible, western sneakers. It is nice to dress-up in one’s finest, but practicality rules the day, fashion be damned.

Friday@Flore

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Friday@Flore goes to Hossegor and shows you the sights from the Café de Paris. The Café de Paris is an institution around here. Set in a classic 1920’s building, at the main intersection, the lazy come here to see and be seen throughout the day, then around 19h, the active set, just back from a day catching the waves, or cycling the hills, spills in to enjoy the live music and refreshing cocktails.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I am really on holidays, so I only have a few moments to take the briefest of snapshots… but sitting here for a morning coffee before a ride along the coast, I was really wishing I had the time to write more about all the fashions being sported by Parisiennes on holidays.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Even on their bicycles, they are looking fairly chic, yet sportive. Hossegor is a cycling town, with the town’s center reduced to one way streets and wide cycling paths.

 

 

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Those marine stripes I mentioned when packing are still in, although I was wrong about the Wayfarers. They have been replaced by Persols this summer. Any style will do, as long as it has the signature silver at the tips.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Then there were the market baskets that I loved coming, and going…. Mr French even got swept away in the fun and spotted this unique little bag, that he thought was fantastic.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There were even more, some sporting elegant leather trip, others boasting ethnic chic and a handful with polka dot cotton trims and bows.

Other stories, I didn’t get on film; orange or pink neon is THE thing to wear for runners this year; shoes, shoes laces, shorts or tanks, it doesn’t matter as long as it glows. The foutas Maroccan hammam towels are becoming more and more popular this year, being favored by the young surfer dudes as well as their grandmères.

Off to the beach. Bises!!!

Packing for adventure…

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I may have mentioned at some point that Mr French and I are very busy packing, eager to be away on holiday. After the beach we are headed to more sand, this time along the banks of the Boro river and in the heart of the Kalahari desert in Botswana, Africa. Which kind of explains why we wear so distressed about his missing passport. Mr French loves the desert and I have been wanting to visit the kalahari ever since reading the Cry of the Kalahari while trekking through East Africa 19 years ago.

One of the rules about traveling in southern Africa is that you don’t wear black, or dark blue. Unlike Paris fashion rules, this is a rule to follow, unless you’re dreaming of being a princess à la Sleeping Beauty. Tse tse flies are drawn to these colors like bees to a honey pot. Bees sting. Tse tse flies painfully chomp out bits of flesh and carry the sleeping sickness. White colors attract seem to disturb wild life, as well. To say that I was fairly motivated to avoid any problems would have to be the understatement of the century. The last time I ignored the African fashion codes, I had to be medi-vaced to Nairobi where I spent a week fairly unconscious in the Aga Khan hospital before being air lifted back to Europe. I set to packing.

These guys do NOT respect the dress code

Turns out my closet reveals a disconcerting lack of imagination and what may be an over attachment to the dictums of fashion. Tanks tops, t-shirts, sweaters, and cotton pants; I need them all for this trip and in my closet they are ALL black, dark blue or white. Not a bit of red in the bunch, forget about a nice neutral like khaki. The only bit of color that I seem to own is limited to some brightly colored tops which would be completely in appropriate for the bush. I needed to do some shopping, preferably some very cheap, sensible shopping. I head to Decathalon, where polar fleeces are 9€ and cheap T-shirts come in packs of three. I am almost ready to go…

On the packing list the travel agent suggests on formal outfit, but I won’t be taking off my protective gear, so what to do? I remember my poncho from the Poncho Gallery. The Poncho Gallery was founded by a pair of Parisienne sisters who developed a serious crush on ponchos and wanted to bring them back into fashion. Their Carré is avaiable in a wide range of colors, including a lovely multi-tomed beige/tan! A simple square of the most luxurious cashmere, the Carré falls in elegant folds once slipped over the head, and it is sure to hide the grungiest safari wear. I head directly to the shop, where there is a soldes and after fifteen minutes I find a dress enough solution that I’ll be able to wear in Paris, something elegant, that will protect me from Mma Nature. I am ready to go.

 

Poncho Gallery / 11 rue de la sourdière Paris 1e / 01 40 20 99 40 / (M) Tuileries

It’s official

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Wahoo!!! Mr French has a passport!! We’re going on holiday after all!

Its time to get packing. Our first destination is Hossegor, a gorgeous vacation village built around a marine lake in the 1920’s. Nestled between the foie gras eating Landes region and the explosive (sometimes literally) tapas loving Basque region, this is surfer territory. An ironic destination for someone who left the Santa Cruz mountains of California, in search of city life. We come here every year, pedaling our dune bikes between the tennis courts and the beach, where we boogie board. And then, we eat.

So what exactly does a Parisienne pack for her French holidays? Her Carte Bancaire, bien sûr. Okay, that is a joke I made up, inspired by the horrible J-A-P jokes of the 1980’s. The ones that accused me of making reservations for dinner.

But seriously, if she is very lucky (I’m not that kind of lucky) an Eres bathing suit and some more sports-y beach wear. A pair of Ray Ban Wayfarers are probably stuffed into her market basket cum beach bag. Another favorite beach bag is the freebie given at the pharmacie when you buy Avene sunscreens. When not hitting the beaches, she may be sporting the practical but stylish Upla bag, or an even more practical and completely functional Bensimon bag. If she does not have a Bensimon bag, it is likely that she is wearing their very affordable, quite simply, yet annual popular canvas sneakers.

And she is probably throwing in some navy blue. And white. And a combination thereof. I blame it on the traditional navy and white striped, St James Breton fishing sweaters, which have been popular since the 1850s. Fashionable Parisienne‘s strictly follow the “never wear more than three colors at once” rule, even on holiday, and this one single, although historic garment seems to dictate the Parisienne‘s vacation palette year in and year out.

While once just a heavy wool sweater worn to survive the elements, you’ll now find marine stripes in every collection, from the luxury houses to discount chains, available in an entire range of styles; from heavy wool to nearly transparent cotton, blue with white stripes, or white with blue stripes. When not on a sweaters, the stripes can be spotted on everything from dresses, to tank tops, canvas bags to beach towels. Only pants seem to be spared the Breton sailor look, and that’s probably because they manage to make even the Parisenne derrière look wide.

For her feet, she has probably thrown in a pair of Les Tropeziennes, an affordable knock of of the classic K Jacques still being handmade in Saint Tropez. And her Aigle rainboots, because no matter where you go in France, rain is always possible. Anything is possible, really.

UPLA

Bensimon

 Saint James

Shine bright

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When a good friend of mine was made redundant at work, the replacement agency that was helping her find a new job actually hired a fashion consultant to take clients shoe shopping. Shoes, according to the experts, are the most important thing you wear when going on a job interview in Paris.

I found this little bit of trivia amazing. I shared it with Mr French and the Parisiennes. But, of course, they concurred. C’est normal. If someone does not take care of their shoes, beh, they are just not serious. Which explains why even the seven year olds in the playground have perfectly polished shoes. My daughters’ friends; average teen boys, all have dress shoes. And wear them on a fairly regular basis. Its a national habit. But having nice shoes is just the beginning.

Shoe care starts immediately upon leaving the shoe store, when Mr French asks if we have waterproofing spray at home. At first, I thought this was a joke. He buys some fairly expensive shoes, and is worried about waterproofing? Don’t you buy them that way and the stuff wears off with time? Non ! When you buy a pair of shoes in Paris, you’ve got to waterproof them before you can ever wear them. And then waterproof them again, every 6-8 weeks for the rest of their lives.

And since they are nice shoes, they will most likely have leather soles. The problem with leather soles is that they are fragile and need to be protected.  You’ve just spent several hundred euros on a pair of shoes, you would think, you would HOPE that they were ready to wear for years to come. But no, after wearing those brand new, gorgeous leather soles exactly five times you are off to the cobbler’s protecting the soles and putting taps on the heels.

At last, you can finally enjoy wearing your shoes; sashaying through the city streets, crossing your legs ‘just so’ at the local café, bobbing your ankle at exactly the right rhythm to appreciate your stunning footwear and generally feeling chicer than the widow of the deposed president of a tropical island state. But wait. Is that a scuff over your left pinkie toe? Damn, did that stumble in the paving stones eat into your leather-lined heel? One day on the town and already you need… a shoe shine.

Fortunately, that is when Frenchmen come into the picture. On any given Sunday night, men throughout the city are taking out their shoe shine kits and getting ready to polish their shoes. I know CEOs of multi-national corporations with full time help who choose to shine their own shoes. Bankers, lawyers, the waiters at your favorite café, and even the gentleman who delivers my groceries, shine their shoes. Every week! “Its relaxing” they claim. “I enjoy it.” They insist. Whatever. I, for one, am happy to contribute to this relaxing moment by adding some shoes of my own. And of course, every morning as he heads out the door, Mr French stoops down, polishing cloth in hand, giving his shoes their daily caress before I get my kiss goodbye.

There is a specific routine to proper shoe shining, but in France, it is like the BBQ, almost exclusively a man’s realm. I suppose I could get all self-righteous about women’s equality, and demand to know more, but really, I’d rather let them have this one. Shine away, Monsieurs! Shine bright!

For everything from animal skins to heel forms to make your own shoes, or just a bit of polish in any color imaginable/ BHV

Ode to Corey Hart

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My fashion frames

Well, not really, but like him, I am obsessed with sunglasses.

When we first moved to Paris I owned a great pair of lemonade-green Ellen Tracy’s with a serious 90’s flair, a ne plus ultra pair of Giorgio Armani’s from the 80’s and I was soon offered a hipster-cool (before hipsters were cool) pair of blue tinted Italian shades. I lacked fpr nothing, but I really, really wanted these very great tortoiseshell Persols. Really, wanted them. Some times I went to sleep thinking about them, petty girl that I am. But as my daughter’s strict Irish nanny would say, “I want gets you nothing.”

Found frames

That spring I chaperoned my daughter’s class to the Luxembourg gardens to watch Brazilian dancers perform for La Fête de la Musique. As we strolled through the park, chatting and herding kids, a teacher came up to a group of us declaring “Tiens, look what I found!”
She was holding a pair of “my” Persols!
“Wow,” I declared, “those are excellent glasses. Perhaps we should bring them to lost and found?”
“Are you nuts?” scoffed la parisienne, “that would be giving a gift to the park staff, they’ll just keep them for themselves.”
With the thousands who passed through the park each day, I kind of saw her point. “Well,  keep them, they’re awesome.”
“I already have this model. Do you want them? If not, maybe Catherine is interested.”
Ethical dilemma. I was still thinking we should return them, but there was no ‘we’ and if I didn’t accept the offer, Cat would. “Oui, merci” I gulped.

Vintage frames

A few years later I mention to Mr French that I love the perfectly designed Tom Ford glasses that seem to have crossed the bridge of every fashionable nose in the city. He thought I had a point and start talking about less sporty, more stylish options. The Ford model was just a bit too popular. We headed to JLC which specializes in fashion forward models from fantastic designers who are discreet with their logos. Most of their collections are not household names. I tried on a pair of Barton Perreira Centerfolds and it was clear I’d found the perfect fit.

Then I started running. Buying new sunglasses struck me as frivolous, but my mind would wander, telling me that a classic pair of the ubiquitous, yet cool Wayfarer Ray Bans would be ideal. M was in Montreal for the summer. At 13, she had some very trendy blue plastic Ray Ban aviators that she loved. She called from grandmère‘s. “Mom, Mom… we were at Walmart shopping for beach towels when Grandmère found a pair of Wayfarers under the display stand. She said that it was no use turning them in to lost and found, they’d only keep them for themselves.” Yes, grandmère is a parisienne, born and bred. My daughter came home from her holidays with a fantastic souvenir for Mom.

After all that, it is somewhat shocking that I still bought another pair of sunglasses. I was strolling the Marais when a pair of Audreys caught my eye. I had never seen a pair of sunglasses that looked so much like the pair Audrey Hepburn once wore. I went in and learned that I was not far off from the truth. Oliver Goldsmith made glasses for Audrey in the 60’s. Recently, his grand-daughter set-up shop in London and started selling Granddad’s designs to addicts like myself, looking for a great vintage look that never grows old.

THE STORE/ JLC

Jerome Dreyfuss

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My New Yorker has lots of Jeromes in her life. There is a man in her yoga class, our crazy hair dresser and her favorite handbag designer, Jerome Dreyfuss. Some how she has gotten on to this Jerome’s VIP press sale list and being a smart girl, every now and again, My New Yorker will drag me along, telling me that I need to benefit from the sale to freshen up my handbag wardrobe.

Jerome works with luxury leathers; lamb, calf and snake skins that have been hand tanned, then colored into rich earth tones with natural dyes. He creates practical, modern bags with an elegant art deco touch. Practical, as in mini-flashlights on a leather lanyard so that girls can find their goods, pockets inside and out and double straps that fit the shoulder or the elbow. The bags come in a large array of sizes, making them perfect for everything from lugging your sportswear to the gym to a swanky night out clubbing. Small evening bags are even kitted out to double as wallets, which has been very helpful on naughty weekends with Mr French: fits perfectly into my Billy when out visiting châteaux or exploring museums for the day, then transforms into a sexy, chic bag for our nocturnal adventures.

Last week I brought Oscar with me on holiday to New York City. I loved that I didn’t see a gazillion other women sporting the same bag and was happy to have it with crowds as diverse as the after-work, yuppy business folk sipping cocktails on expense accounts at the Mandarin Oriental to  the hipster crowd as I worked my way through the Brooklyn flea market in Williamsburg.

Giving us girls a bit of fantasy, each model has a name which is engraved inside. Before heading out I get to play master of my destiny, deciding whether Oscar or Billy will be joining me for the day (or night!)

Jerome Dreyfuss

Ohh la la lingerie…

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Mr French likes to take me shopping. I know, totally weird, huhn? A man who likes to shop? Rumour has it that this is actually pretty common among French men and circumstantial evidence tells me its probably true. That circumstantial evidence being last week’s trip to NYC where every intelligent store seemed to have plenty of seating full of bored to tears (literally, in one instance) men folk.

As a result of all this shopping, my name is on the mailing list of some rather nice boutiques. One of these boutiques is Eres. I know, cool, huhn? I’ve been into an Eres store with Mr French. It was Valentine’s Day their collection had lace. ‘Nuf said about that.

Eres was founded by the Parisienne Irene Leroux in 1968, when she took over her family’s struggling bathing suit business near La Madeleine. At a time when women were liberating themselves and their fashions, Irene decided to revolutionize swimwear design by removing all the internal corsetry. And she started a winter collection for her affluent clients who would spend the colder months in warmer climates. This brilliant move earned her the scorn of the local competition who scoffed at her foolishness, until they realized she had  revitalize the entire industry while ensuring Eres’ foothold in the luxury market.

In 1996 Chanel purchased Eres and two years later they introduced a line of sumptuously rich, incredibly elegant lingerie. This season’s collection is particularly gorgeous; sensible lace trimming iced aqua blue or sunshine yellow silk. Pretty and girlie, yet practical. Things I can wear under my clothing without worrying about weird ruffles popping up or strange ribbons creating a deformed looking silhouette. Stunningly sexy, pleasing not only Mr French but the firemen of the quartier!

A couple of weeks ago I got an other treat from Eres… an invitation to the launch of their new nail polish collection. Sounded like the great way to get our minds thinking of summer sunshine to combat the gloomy spring we’ve had and who doesn’t love a girls night out; champagne, panties and polish!?! I invited my friend Kristen from Un Homme et Une Femme and we were treated to an evening of pampering. About three of the guests had thought to bring along their men folk, who looked very content to ogle the barely clad models as they filtered through the crowd. I was glad Mr French was not around to see these girls in their swimsuits before I get back into mine this summer! There was a lively cocktail bar, but I was too lazy to brave the clamouring crowd, so Kristen and I made do with champagne. And since eating anything substantial in sight of the bathing beauties would be something of a mental challenge, Eres provided fresh sliced mango, melon and strawberries, which went well with our manicures, Kristen chose orange and I went for raspberry.

The best part was leaving. We were given little gift bags and sent out into the balmy night. Balmy? Yes, balmy. The weather had turned and warmth was in the air as dusk settled, the city turned on its gold toned electric light and we strolled down to the Concorde, heading home, ready for summer.

Eres

 

Friday@Flore

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It is not easy to follow fashion from my favorite café in Paris when I am out exploring New York City. Fortunately, NYC is a fashion capital in its own right and there was an overwhelming choice of outdoor terrasses, but I had no way of knowing which would be the perfect place for setting up shop. Finding “your” café is not an easy task. Parisiennes each have their own personal favorite and their choice is about as logical as their ability to eat full fat cheeses while maintaining the longest life expectancy in the western world.

Fortunately, I have friends to guide me. The beautifully bright blogger Kristen, behind Un Homme et Une Femme, is an intrepid NYer who was ready to help, happy to share a private slice of her beloved New York with a Big Apple neophyte like me. Kristen pointed me towards Pastis in the Meatpacking District.

I had a great time sitting there watching the crowd go by. It wasn’t long before I was ready to get up and start firing, très contente that Kristen had aimed so well.

After the shoot I settled back to “my” table, to start looking through the photos, when suddenly, as if hit upside the head, I was transported from 9th Ave to Sesame Street, “One of these things is not like the others…” infusing my thoughts.

Because in NYC, BLUE is IN.

And it would seem, that when something is IN in New York, it is on everyone, in every style imaginable.

 

From traditional business, to casual not-so-chic, NYers were chasing away the rainy day blues with their own shades of blue. Every shade of blue; denim, electric, navy, bright, cornflower… the tones were limitless.

But if the Michel Kors photoshoot, the bright splashes of color and the pink pants on every other man in Paris is any indication, NYers will soon be seeing red!

 Pastis

 

 

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