Monthly Archives: July 2013

C’est la Vie…

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Excusez-moi, this post is several hours late. That is because today, I was out dealing with the French administration, which, after a few hours, helps one understand Sartre’s inspiration for “No Exit”.

The adventure began several months ago when Em mentioned that she’s like an official ID. This is a handy thing to have for art exhibitions, movie tickets and encounters with the RATP. Being someone who loves having all her paper work in order, I gave an enthusiastic OUI! and suggested we plan to go the first week of her holidays. That was in June.

Having done this before, I wen to the official site, printed out the list of required documents and the forms to fill out. We headed out the door, confident that everything was in order. Arriving at the Mairie of the 6th arrondisement, we were told that official documents were now being handled in the 7th arrondissement. Which struck my funny bone, because when we lived in the 7th I’d had to come here for our passports. We traipsed off to the 7th.

The office was virtually empty. 4 civil servants were in the room, 3 behind their desks, a fourth standing there with his hands behind his back. There were two citizens being helped at the desks and a woman waiting with her child. After several minutes the standing man asked her if she had an appointment. She nodded her head, showing him the postcard she had received telling her to come by and pick up her son’s passport. The man shrugged and refused to help her. He returned to his post, but several minutes later he must have gotten bored because he stepped back up to Madame, took her card and went to get the passport. Then he turned to me, asking if I had an appointment. I did not.

“You must have an appointment,” he informed me, pointing to a sign that confirmed appointments have been required since Jan.

“That really sucks,” I told him, “I was on your website and there was nothing saying they were now required.”

“You went on the wrong site.”

“I went on the official government site.”

“Aha! I knew it. That is the wrong site. We are not the government, we are the police.” he exclaimed triomphantly.

I didn’t know how to respond to this. If he remembered me he could prevent me from ever getting the documents I required. But I could not resist, sneering something that sounded like this, “I may be an immigrant, but I am smart enough to know that you work for the government. You may want to go back to elementary school and learn something.”

I went home and sure enough, the official police site is a government site and it did NOT mention appointments were now mandatory. But it DID provided the link to make one. So I did. The next available one being today. We had to wait five weeks to see someone in an office in which only 1/2 of its staff was occupied. No wonder France is in trouble!

We arrived and I was confident that all our papers were in order. Ha, ha, ha…. I was actually curious to find out what problems they’d create. Again, two people were busy, two were not. I had my appointment and its reference number. They didn’t check either, it was enough to say yes, I had an appointment. Remember that when its your turn folks!

First problem, the photo looked too small. The fonctionnaire wasn’t sure, but she thought it was too small. She went to check with her boss. He wasn’t sure either, but it must have been a rather funny, engrossing debate. It took 8 minutes and involved lots of laughter.She agreed to send the photo, warning us it may be returned.

Second problem, the I had not photocopied the back of my ID card, only the front. I brought out the list. They do not require a photocopy of the back. She wanted one anyway.

The photocopy machine in the room was broken. I had to cross the courtyard and run upstairs. BUT, she warned me, the machine only takes 10 centimes pieces. I only had a 50 centimes piece. I run across the street to the post office, where, she has told me, they have a change machine. The post office is on summer hours and closed until 13h30. The Prefecture is on bureaucrat hours and will not see the public after 13h30. I see a tabac up the street and enter apologizing, explaining my plight to the woman at the bar, who is shaking her head.

“I really want to help you, but the post office just started their summer hours and people have been asking me for 10 pieces all morning. I’ve got nothing left.”

A kind gentleman at the bar offers me a 20 centimes coin. I re-explain my plight. The emaciated man next to him, with tired eyes and drawn skin eyes me wearily. He has a 10 centimes coin on the change tray in front of him, but I can sense these 10 cents are important to him. He has been debating whether or not to help for the past three minutes. He offers me his ten cents. I grab it thankfully, handing him my 50 centimes in exchange. His face lights up. I return the 20 centimes to my gallant prince and head out the door, clutching the coin tightly, petrified I am going to drop it as I stumble across the incredibly uneven, 3 century old paving stones. I make it into the Mairie, head upstairs and find the photocopier. It is being used by a man needing many, many copies. I am so happy to have the right change that I do not huff, or puff my impatience. I stand their happily and he invites me to make my copy, explaining he has many. I go to put my coin in the machine. Which is when I see that it takes all kinds of coins. It does not make change, but it would have happily taken my 50 centimes coin.

I make my copy, complete my dossier and flounce off, totally thrilled that my extra 40 cents went to someone who really appreciated it.

 

 

Friday Date Night

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Life never happens how you plan it. This week I’d planned a romantic dinner at Les Etangs de Corot, a quaint little hotel in the countryside physically not far from Versailles, but mentally worlds away. I have never been before, but Mr French goes regularly for business dinners and I recommend it anytime a friend is looking for an afternoon get away. Especially for their Sunday Jazz brunches.

Then on Tuesday I learned that a very famous expat blogger reviewed the place just last week. It had been on my radar for years and he pulls it out of his hat only now? That same evening we went to a family birthday dinner that was so fun we didn’t leave until after midnight. The next night Mr French walked through the door at 1am, following a business dinner. I’d lost the scoop, my man was exhausted and Em was coming home the next day. It was time to cancel a reservation.

But I hadn’t exactly filled the house with ingredients, so I needed a quick, easy solution. Hello Anna & Jo!!!! A Brooklyn style pizzeria on the rue Pontoise in the 5th.

I didn’t come to Paris because I want to share American cuisine with the world. The food writers who come here and then start promoting food trucks, cupcakes and hot dog stands annoy me. I love good, honest French food. But you know what? Every now and again a girl needs a break from this city and since I wasn’t escaping to the countryside for the evening, I loved feeling like we’d gone to NY. Mr French loved it even more, thrilled with the cold, white subway tiles that line the walls and the East India Pale Ale directly from Brooklyn.

The owner is French, but loved the pizza he’d enjoyed while traveling in the US so much that he went to San Francisco for 6 months to learn the secrets of the trade and import them home. He also imported some real, American style pepperoni. The crusts are thin and crispy. The cheese is the real deal and incredibly tasty and, well, PEPPERONI. In Paris.

It has only been open a few weeks, and already the neighbors, like the owner of Le Petit Pontoise next door, can’t seem to get enough, so while the food tastes like the USA, the buzz sounds purely local. And the place was buzzing, absolutely packed with a line outside. Who said the French hate Americans?

Mykonos, la suite

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While the town was not necessarily our thing, we spent two absolute dream days at Mykonos, three if you count our Date Day.

The First Adventure was with Sunfos Alessia Yachting, aboard a two cabin boat with Alessia and her captain on a private excursion to sail to a deserted beach on an uninhabited island. It was the calmest day locals had seen in weeks with mild 43 mph winds. Which means we were doing an exhilirating 8-9 knots throughout the day.

After a brief conversation the crew realized that not only did Mr French love sailing but he is actually something of an experienced sailor, so they gave him the helm. 2 metre high waves crashing behind him. Thrilling!!!

We passed an island, rounded a corner and paradise was before our eyes. A lone beach just for us. We set anchor, dove in and swam to shore while Alessia nd the captain prepared our lunch. Greek salad, spaghetti and fresh melon. I’m not sure what it is, but throughout our travels in Greece, we came across nearly as many Italian restaurants as Greek ones. Mr French was thrilled for the change in diet and I’ll admit that the pasta was cooked to perfection, but, well, when in Greece….

After lunch we returned to the water for some snorkeling while the captain headed out spear fishing for his supper, spear. He was proud of the assortment of fish he caught and they were both thrilled with the seashell he brought up. We think its called a pinha… looks like a ginormous mussel painted amber and it is enjoyed raw for its sweet, nutty flavored meat, that they generously to share with us.

Heading home, the boat seemed to sit 45* to the sea, for a thrilling ride back to land.

During this adventure Alessia recommended a visit to Delos. Thus began Adventure Day Two, a tourist excursion to Europe’s largest archeological site. Had I’d planned this bit on my own, I’d have probably just purchased boat tickets and tried to see the island on our own. Instead, we asked our hotel to take care of it and they made sure we had a guided tour, which was fantastic, bringing the visit to life. It was amazing as we stood there imagining the 30,000 people who had lived there nearly 3000 years ago, or the 20,000 deaths that occurred when the city was invaded by Mithrades. Wine vessels that had been buried in the ashes of the attack lay against abandoned was. Greek columns stood in solitude under the baking sun while lions stood guard. Archeologists have identified the homes of local aristocracy and fish mongers, temples and wells. An Egyptian temple to Isis marks the way to the summit of what was once a holy mountain while below mosaics of masked men, tigers and dolphins decorate homes that have not provided shelter in centuries. Nature is slowly reclaiming her land from man and the result is astounding. So amazing, in fact, that after several hours of hiking under the brutal sun, we were sad to hear the arrival of our boat on the last departure of the day, wishing we could have stayed to explore more….

Mykonos

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After 4 days on Santorini, it was time to head to Mykonos. There are flights, but we took the ferry. A friend had told the ride was long, which I didn’t really get because its only 2 1/2 hours. Among the longest 2 1/2 of my life. Even in the height of summer the Cyclades are windy, which creates a natural air conditioning and can be lovely. It is less lovely at sea, especially while on a speeding catamaran ferry. The crew spent much of the trip passing out barf bags, an American woman screamed in desperation, asking them to slow the boat down. I recommend flying.

We arrived at the Mykonos town port, very happy to be on terra firma, and thanking our driver profusely for the cold face towels he handed us as we jumped into the van. As is our style, we stayed off the beaten path, slightly out of town. It suits us and we were thrilled with Stephanos, the beach just below our hotel.

The beaches of Mykonos each have their own personality. There is the “wild” beach of Sostis and party beaches with names like Paradise and Super Paradise. Stephanos is a family beach that fills up with locals on the weekend and has three very good restaurants, each more simple, yet delicious than the next. It was a great base for our trip.

After a relaxing swim and a late lunch at the beach, we were ready to hit the town. I don’t do well with hoards of tourists, which is pretty ironic for someone living in the most visited city on earth, so I was rather apprehensive about Mykonos. In the end, its like every where, it only takes a right (or left) turn to get off the beaten path. Which is what we did, by sticking to side streets and keeping our hours slightly earlier than everyone else.

The town strikes me as a very charming, high-end shopping mall. There were jewelry stores selling gems the size of my fist, art galleries asking 5 figures for a piece, and basically anything a jetsetter would need in an emergency (Alaïa dresses, Louboutins, LV bags, Patek Phillip…). Not exactly my scene (except for the sandals. I was very tempted by the hand-made in Mykonos sandal shops, even if I did walk away empty footed).

I loved seeing the windmills and strolling the white washed alley ways with Mr French. I was thrilled that the chapels welcomed visitors, and their cameras, and we got excited each time we saw see traditional women chatting away in their kitchens, or a group of local men hanging out at the kebab joint by the bus stop. Even the large group of millionaires dining at the table behind one evening was authentic; they were Greek millionaires enjoying a night out with their age appropriate wives. While not really my style, the place quickly grew on me, and we even ended up taking advantage of their infamous nightclub scene, enjoying exotic cocktails with a sunset view before the maddening crowds flooded in.

We had two meals in town. An extraordinary traditional dinner at the quaint To Maereio taverna. The room was cool and dark, just like a Greek home and our dinner included zucchini fritters, a pork stew with feta and sautéed mushrooms. It was so good I didn’t have to look at my notes to remember what we ate. The second meal was at Interni, an über-chic, jetset address, in a gorgeous cactus-scaped courtyard that included a chapel and two bars with surprisingly reasonable prices and excellent cocktails for some really fun people watching. It may be your scene, it may not, but one thing is for sure, you’re not in Kansas, Dorothy. This could very well be the land of Oz.

 

Friday Date Day – Chez Kiki

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Virtual every night in Greece was date night. We’d left the “kids”* at home for this very reason, we were enjoying some very well deserved Monsieur et Madame time. We were so looking forward to it that Mr French had taken me on a little shopping excursion to ERES before our departure. So there I was, hiking through brush and brumble, sweat drip drip dropping from the nape of my neck to the small of my back, streaming down to my exclusively silk clad bottom. Très chic, non? Its one of those moments when you see yourself in a ridiculous NYer cartoon of your life.

Inappropriate wardrobe choices aside, dining on a schooner at sunset, in a remote harbour with the sapphire blue water lapping at your feet, its hard to imagine more romantic.

Before leaving Santorini Mr French had a little chat with Joy, the owner of Dimitri’s, asking for some restaurant recommendations in Mykonos. Chez Kiki’s she said without hesitation. Arriving at the Grace Hotel Mykonos our first order of business was to find Kiki. We went to the receptionist and asked her to make reservations for that evening.

“Ah,” said the receptionist, “I see you’re serious about good food.”

I nodded emphatically, my silly grin probably making me look a bit slow.

“Well, they don’t take reservations, and they only serve lunch, and you’ll need a car to get there. Its on a wild beach on the north side of the island. A bit difficult to find, you know, they don’t have a sign, you just have to follow your nose.”

The place was sounding more and more attractive. The next day, while I was up stairs at the pool, Mr French ran into a car rental guy in the lobby and immediately arranged to have a car brought to us Tuesday morning. Tuesday, everything worked like a dream, or like we were on a perfect holiday in Greece, and by 10am we were off, planning to visit the island a bit before hunting down our lunch.

The island’s main town reminded my of a Nevada ghost town. There was an itinerant artisan with reeds tied to his, advertising his availability for restring rattan chairs. The square was deserted, except for 4 local men sitting in a café slurping back Greek coffee. Sausages dried in a cage outside the butcher shop. A lone priest guarded the monastery, his indigo robes flapping on the laundry line behind him as he chatted away to some Israeli tourists.

“Israel! I was in Israel. Beautiful country!”

“Uh, yes, you went to Jerusalem?” assumed the Israeli.

“Pfft.” he waved the comment aside, “Eiliat (an Israeli resort town). I went to Eilat. The fish, they were amazing!!!”
We headed back to the car where I nearly knocked myself unconscious with the car trunk. Classic me. Then off to the “wild” beach the receptionist had mentioned. On Mykonos, a wild beach is a beach with out parasols, lounge chairs, a bar or Europop blasting out over the loudspeakers. We pulled up and were astounded with the Caribbean blue waters. Walking down the trail I spotted a preoccupied looking man sitting on a stoop. Kiki! We found him before the bbq had even started burning for the day. I was thrilled.

We hit the sand and Mr French spent the next 20 minutes putting together a shade producing lean-to for me before heading out to sea for a glorious swim. I loved the swim, but as soon as the clock struck one I was anxious to head up to the restaurant, but feeling I should just be savouring the moment. I lasted 1/2 an hour before Mr French burst out laughing at my angst and got up to shake out his towel.

The area in front of Kiki’s is just a patch of dirt with a wall to one side, a church to the other and a aqua marine sea below. There were already people waiting for a table, sitting patiently in a row of chairs. I ordered Mr Fremch take a seat and stood at the door waiting for Kiki to acknowledge our presence.

As the large man lumbered to the door a Greek woman cut in front of me, trying to secure a place before the rest of us. I’ve lived in Paris long enough to make it clear I had been there first. Kiki would have none of it telling me to get in line behind the man in the chair (my very own Mr French) and letting Mme the Greek know she’d be after me.

So what was all the fuss and was it really worth the trek? Chez Kiki is on a large stone paved terrace that hangs above the sea. The branches of a tree create shade for the entire space and there are two windows, each framing a still life of the Greek kitchen beyond. One of the six boys who are constantly buzzing by, serving the 40 or so places, stops by the table asking what you’d like to drink and advising you to go into the kitchen to order your salad.

It is cool and dark in the kitchen, a traditional looking Greek woman stands behind a large refrigerated counter with about a dozen salads, each more original (and delicious) than the next. We negotiate which four we’ll try and she asks about the grill. I’d seen shiny large eggplants being brought to the grill and insisted we try one, while Mr French opted for octopus.

Everything was perfect; the view, the crowd, and especially the food, slow grilled over glowing embers, the eggplant dressed in a finely chopped parsley salad before being brought to our table. Dessert? We opted for swim in the pristine waters below, kissing and splashing in the lapping waves.

* I think we need a new word in the English language to describe the modern phenomenon of adult children who have left the nest but still require regular maintenance.

Still on Santorini

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My yoga studio

After a day of hiking up and down and down and up, our calves were achy. So sore that we were both walking like primates, our knees, hips and ankles all bent to 45°. Its not an attractive look. Yoga seemed a great way try and ease the pain, so I spread out the mat  in the churchyard of the little chapel that was in front of our room, and got busy sun saluting the Aegean seas at dawn, feeling very thankful to those Greek gods for having created such a unique place.

A chapel at the edge of the world

Being in all that pain from walking inspired more hiking. Crazy, but true. We’d loved the previous day’s walk so much, we decided to hike the down the cliff that was outside our front door to visit an isolated chapel that dangles there, just above the sea.

We then had a 40 minutes hike to Fira, the island’s capital and the departure point of our afternoon sailing trip. Before getting all the way to town I needed lunch. Mr French kept trying to encourage me on, but Madame was hungry. It was either feed her, or risk loosing his head. An elderly Greek lady, wearing all black and worrying away at her prayer beads saw me looking at a menu. “This place is good,” she noded, “very good.” Looking up, I realized it was a windmill. The design-y, trend-y interior didn’t inspire much confidence, but But Kiria (Greek for Madame) knew her stuff and the food was excellent.

Fira, like Oia, is on a cliff, with the habour below, and like Oia, donkeys are an option for getting down. But Mr French hadn’t changed his mind from the previous evening. It was not an option. There is also a cable car, but we were feeling adventurous. So we headed down, slipping on donkey crap, gagging from the stench and dodging the beasts as they charged us, under the blistering sun.

A stunning vessel, with a great crew, welcomed us below. We were soon aboard the Thalassa, a replice of a 19th century schooner that we shared with about 50 other tourists from across globe. It wasn’t a big group given the size of the boat and there was shade for everyone. First stop an active volcano and a one hour hike to feel the heat of its the rocks, smell its sulfur and learn its history. At this point my legs were, as the French say, gone (je n’ai plus de jambe).

Next stop a small bay with warm water springs and iron ore that stains your swimsuit red. We jumped from the ship directly into the sea. It was delicious after the heat of the day and exactly what the doctor ordered for my missing legs. We were soon back on board headed for Thirassia for another swim on the crystal clear waters. If I ever come back to Santorini, I’ll be visiting this island. NOTE TO SELF; If I ever return, spend a day here to photographing the local color and try a local tarverna.

A simple dinner was served, then as the sky turned to a golden amber, a sailor took out his saxophone and serenaded us into the sunset…

 

 

On the third day she rested…

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Not that I’m comparing myself to the Great Creator, but s/he created the world in 6 days before taking a break, where as on holiday in Santorini, Greece last week, I only made it to three before needing a holiday from our holidays.

When I told a friend our destination she gave me a rather dry look, adding, “You know, you can’t wear heels.” The map of the nearest big city had a “No Heels” logo on its legend.  What wasn’t explained, and what I didn’t ask, is why. I had no idea that everything, absolutely everywhere in Santorini involves a steep slope. We didn’t stop going up and down. To give you an idea of just how extreme things can be; from the breakfast deck to our room, there were 80 stairs. The same 80 for the pool and at least double that to leave the hotel. After two days of steps and long (yet glorious) hikes, I needed a day off! So, Mr French and I set ourselves up with faux-jitos to spend the morning by the infinity pool, above the sapphire tinted Aegean Sea, while I wrote this post;

Our first day we were eager to hike the 2.5 hours from our hotel in the village of Imerovigli to Oia (pronouced Ee-a). It was a long, glorious walk, the sea to our right and our left, blue domed chapels spotting the way. There were rustic, open air cafés where locals gathered to chat and escape the heat of the day, there were remote hotels and a satisfying series of photo ops. Drying wild flowers perfumed the air.

We arrived at pristine, sparkling white Oia ready for some hydration, some shade and a bite of lunch. The first fairly decent looking place we came to was Thalami, which claimed to serve local specialties. I was skeptical; with its prime tourist location, wind-kissed terasse and seductive shade, it seemed too perfect to be true, but I needed a break from the relentless sun and was too hungry to start looking for something “better”. What a stroke of luck that was! Everything was seasoned with local herbs making for exciting flavors in all the dishes we tried; tomato fritters (was that a bit of tarragon they put in the batter?), fava bean puree, Santorini salad with caper leaves and grilled octopus.

We were soon back on the street, exploring Oia, a charming town with lots of hotels, plenty of souvenir shops, a school, an active church and more scenery than you can shake a donkey stick at. They also have the most magical bookshop I have ever wandered across. Atlantis Books was founded by a group of young people who used to work at Shakespeare & Company here in Paris, so they are definitely kindred spirits! Volunteers come from across the globe to work in this little piece of heaven, surrounded by books, amazing friends, and the shining sea (you’ll hear more about this shop soon…)

A tote bag full of booklets later, we left Atlantis and returned to Oia. That donkey stick that was shaking at the scenery? It was for all the donkeys that were lined up to take people down the cliff to Ammoudi harbour. Mr French has a moral objection to using these beasts of burden for tourist traffic, so we walked down. 45 minutes, with even more stunning views under the afternoon sun. Mr French had heard there was a beach down here and after 18 hours on an island, the man was itching to swim. A brief hike on what was no longer a trail and we’d arrived. It was more a small outcropping of rocks than a beach, but the water was perfect and it was the ideal place for a well deserved, refreshing swim, well off the beaten path.

This is a working fisherman’s bay, with a small collection of restaurants that grill the catch of the day, inviting clients to select their own fish before cooking them to perfect. Mr French was getting hungry, so he asked for a table at the first fish place we came across. We later found out that this fish place, Dimitiris is one of the most famous in all of Santorini, but in the moment, we didn’t realize how lucky we were that they had had a cancellation and that we were enjoying a table with a sunset view.

When our waitress invited us into the kitchen to select our catch, I asked Mr French to select a fish for the two of us. The man does not like being told what to do and rarely follows directions, so I shouldn’t have been surprised when I started to smell the aroma of grilled lobster wafting our way.  Caviar… Foie gras…. not my thing, but a good lobster makes me go weak at the knees and this one must have been touched by the Greek gods, because it was divine.

Walking by our table a woman exclaimed, “Someone’s not shy…” A few minutes later another walked past exclaiming, “OMG!!!” And finally a third, “Wow! You’re SO lucky!”

“Lady,” I thought, “you’ve got no idea…”
Thalami

Atlantis Books

Dimitris – Ammoudi, tel. 22860 71606

Date night – Chez Fernand

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This wasn’t really a date night, but a romantic Saturday afternoon spent running errands in the ‘hood. By 14h I was feeling faint with hunger, so Mr French suggested we pop into one of his local favorites, Chez Fernand.

Chez Fernand is in an overwhelmingly touristy little square of streets filled with one restaurant after the other. The kind of place I generally avoid like the cat’s litter box and I was rather surprised the first time Mr French brought me in here.

The charming wooden door, the red checked table clothes, I couldn’t tell if this was a tourist trap, or a genuine French dive. But it was full of local merchants swigging back carafes of red over their lunch hour(s) which is always a good sign. The joking in rapid fire French that was flying around the room was an even better one. And yes, I agree, I probably needn’t have been looking for signs at all, since my guide was Mr French.

Since that first date, Chez Fernand has become one of our regular cantines. The food is always good; very traditional, featuring market fresh ingredients and without any fussy foam on your plate. This is food grandmère used to make. And the prices are fair, which she’d appreciate, making it a good address for just about everyone, but especially anyone who appreciates a lively local scene with patrons screaming from one table to the next, the chef coming out to see their satisfied grin, the servers telling you to behave yourself.

Our last meal was veal kidney for monsieur while I enjoyed a bit of cod with a healthy serving of vegetables, another thing I love about Fernand’s. They’ve got greens! And great desserts, which promise a sweet ending to our afternoon.

Curtain drawn

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Mr French and I do not have curtains in our living room. He finds this terribly odd, but it does not bother me one bit. We look out over a garden, the building across the street is full of nuns and with kids in the house we keep the private moments, private.

His mother also finds this incredibly odd. But not too odd, because the last time she came to visit she loved being waited on hand and foot by lil’ ol’ moi so very much that she stopped taking her medication and got ill just so that she could stay longer in my lap of luxury. Regardless, she now refuses to ever come visit again, unless we get curtains. Which strikes me as a very good argument for living without them.

But Mr French wants curtains and he has vetoed the lovely, linen IKEA ones I have had for the last 20 years, so I head to one of my favorite places in Paris, the Marché St Pierre at the foot of the Sacre Coeur Basilica.

I arrived on a rain day, which provided a bit of atmosphere as I made my way up the narrow, meandering cobbled streets. Umbrellas dotted the scene as I hopped around, avoiding murky puddles. The Marché isn’t really a marché at all, but a store on 4 or 5 floors that has been selling just about every kind of fabric you can image since 1920.

The magasin draws one of the most eclectic crowds you can imagine; African ladies in their brightly patterned batiks (which, in an odd twist of history, traditionally come from Amsterdam) sift through bargain bins elbow to elbow with funky clad fashion design students. Bourgeois women are there for home furnishing, or school projects standing in line behind men in suits. We’re all there for fabric and it feels like you’ve entered an exclusive private club when you enter the neon-lit, dusky space. Social barriers melt away as strangers start talking, then joking with one another, the entire exchange made possible by a mutual appreciation for fabric. And while it feels exclusive, the prices are anything but, this being the best place to come for affordable fabrics.

The store drew other fabrics shops to the area. If they don’t have what you’re looking for, Reine across the street most certainly will. Almost all the other, smaller shops have fold with the arrival of cheap foreign fashion and they have been replaced by costume shops selling some great fashions for the local trade; hookers and show girls and just maybe bourgeois Moms who are in the area looking for curtain fabric and decide that this may be fun excuse to send the kids away for the weekend and to actually need those curtains after all.

Fashion as art

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A blogger I admire very much, Denise, writes about her life in Bolton, which includes frequent visits to Paris. She’ll write about cycling with our mutual friend Jane, going off to the races with her beloved husband Michael, or savouring peaceful moments on her own.

A year ago today Denise wrote about an exhibit at the Centre Pompidou honoring the artist Gerhard Richter. She tells the story of seeing one of his paintings and having it touch her very soul. I was so jealous when I read that. I love art, frequent museums and exhibitions regularly enough to be considered a junkie, and yet I had never felt moved to tears over art.

Until last week. And many would even consider it art. I was at the Haute Couture exhibition at the Hôtel de Ville, a free exhibit featuring one of Paris’ most important industries. The show began upstairs with pattern samples and sketch books. There was a series of photos featuring the hands of famous designers, including Mme Coco.

It was lovely, and informative, but the real goods were downstairs where Haute Couture dresses from the studios of every major designer, from Frederick Worth, who founded Haute Coutre in the 1850’s to today’s Jean-Paul Gualtier. The masterpieces of houses that did not survive the death of their designer like Poiret, Vionnet, and Schiaparelli were all on display. Icons of modern style like Courrèges, Balanciaga, and Alaïa were there, as well.

And it was all so beautiful, the sumptuous folds, stunning bead work, masterful pleats. These men and women had a away with fabric and they knew (or know) how to show off a woman’s body, curves and all, to its very best.

And there, between a Dior and a Grès, my eyes began to sting and the tears to spill at the tremendous beauty of it all.

 

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