Fall-Winter 2014-15

Screen shot 2014-02-28 at 8.20.19 PMHarvey Weinstein is casually chatting away with Rihanna as five Eastern European sirens pose for a photo op. Rumors fly, Jessica Alba is in the house. Is that Emma Roberts? China doll beauties surround us, one wearing a short veil, studded with small blue blossoms, another with a six strand pearl choker that rises up her neck. Italian women looking like princesses, Americans like fashion iconics, Russians like stars. We are in a sea of luxury, from bags to shoes to furs to dresses, each woman looking more stunning than the next; cream colored lace, black silk, blue fox, silver moiré in a rainbow of colors.

The enormous white tent is packed; colorful, geometric lights creating a visual buzz, the heat of our bodies warming the space despite a rain sodden winter sky beyond the thin canvas. The lights dim, casting a blue tone an expectant hush over this unique privileged world, the world of Dior.

Screen shot 2014-02-28 at 8.19.27 PM Screen shot 2014-02-28 at 8.20.36 PM Screen shot 2014-02-28 at 8.21.49 PM Screen shot 2014-02-28 at 8.22.21 PM

A sudden shock of white light, with a jolt of techno music and the models begin to pour in… the lines are pure, with gentle curves that make even these too-thin, androgynous girls look like women. The first pieces are in muted tones, necklines low, an asymmetrical detail here, a splash of color there. Jackets are tied up in wide laces running up the side, down the back. These are the power suits of the 20 teens. 55 outfits plod past, worn by serious, intent women, their hair slicked back, hanging straight and long down their backs; a series of astrahkan coats one in a grey so lustrous it evoked rich, opulent pearls. And then a burst of powerful color as a bright yellow, vivid blue and dramatic fuschia bring a illicit a twitter, instagram, and vine excitement from the crowd.

Screen shot 2014-02-28 at 8.22.50 PM

Screen shot 2014-02-28 at 8.23.29 PMAs the last model steps behind the podium, the rest file back out, a fashion parade celebrating Fall-WInter 2014-15 and the talent of Monsieur Raf Simons, a man who understands where women want to be, tomorrow.

 

 

 

 

 

A special thank you to the stunning Cindy Jones, for inviting me to be her guest and making another of this girl’s dreams  come true.

Screen shot 2014-02-28 at 8.18.20 PM

 

 

 

 

 

Black and blue

Screen shot 2014-02-26 at 11.43.10 AM

A Jefferson county police cruiser on the French Riviera… pinch me, again!!!

Feeling a bit bruised these days, but in a mostly, very, very good way, as my mind reels from the imaginary pinches I receive after murmuring, “Pinch me, I’m dreaming!”. And I have been thinking it ALOT lately.

Last week I spent time exploring the largest private wine cellar in Europe at the Hôtel de Paris, with a charming sommelier who took out his keys and invited me to visit the private stock of the royal family of Monaco, and cradled and ancient Chateau d’Yquem so I could appreciate the smoky tobacco shade of the liquor. And while I hate the expression “the best” I think I savoured the best soufflé; the perfect balance of tangy lemon and carmelized sugar laced with butter at Le Grill as the above mentioned sommelier taught me more than I’d ever thought I’d know about appreciating fine wines. After dinner, we walked into a final dress rehearsal in the Royal Opera House in Monte Carlo, I watched the roulette wheel spin and slipped into a dreamy sleep at one of the finest hotels in the world.

And that was just the first afternoon of my adventures on the Cote d’Azur…

It would have been hard to come home, if home wasn’t Paris and if it wasn’t to write about about the Côte d’Azur and all the wonderful adventures for AFAR magazine and The Girls Guide to Paris. So, in another “pinch me” moment I am spending my week writing about my true passion; travel.

And as I sit here typing, I have just received an invitation to the Dior Fashion show this Friday. I was asked to reply quickly. I think they had my answer in a nano second. I am such a fan, I don’t need to see the invite to know that it is held in a white tent in the gardens at the Rodin museum.

I am off to finish my work. As soon as its done, I’ll be back here, setting the clock to noon and sharing it all with you…

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.

HAPPY WHATEVER DAY to you!!!

In training…

Screen shot 2014-02-12 at 12.21.12 PMThe training schedule for the Semi Marathon de Paris, that I found here; Half Marathon training schedule at Shape.com felt like a needle popping the balloon of my ego when I read that it wasn’t enough to run, I needed to introduce something called cross training into my routine.

Scrambling for a solution and a bit bored with the gym, I decided to check out the 1930’s historical monument, La Piscine Pontoise. Makes sense, no? You need to exercise so you search out a little bit of architect? The Montparnasse pool is just a few blocks away, the Piscine Pontoise involves taking the metro. But I figure if I am going to suffer, I might as well do it in style.

Like a turquoise jewel, adorned with two rows of blue doors and set in an ornate mounting several floors below a precious steel and glass ceiling. It is a beautiful space and for the most part, I love going there. For the most part, because the French are not exactly the best people on planet earth for following the rules and Parisians in particular seem to think they were created to keep everyone else in line so they can have their way with the world.

Managing the anarchy in everyday life requires a very precise choreography that took me several years to master. But I am new to it all at the pool, severely handicapped by my poor vision and pathetic paddling skills. Which means there are incidents. Incidents involving others that happen several times every session and leave me screaming, berating folk and spewing my outrage. Silently, in my head. It is a pretty hysterical place to be as I go back and forth and back and forth, having so much fun with my anger, I forget to count my laps.

Yesterday it started 1/2 way through the first lap. Well, actually, that is not true, it started while waiting line and the woman behind me tried to cut in front. As if getting into the pool area nano second sooner was going to help her win Olympic gold. We were on dry land, so I brushed it off. Handed in my ticket, got a dressing room, made it downstairs; took my shower, got my paddle board and found myself at that 1/2 lap when I found myself blocked by someone trying to run in the water and here is what happened in my head;

“Oh my god, its that guy really trying to run in the water? Doesn’t he know this is a lap lane? Wow, nice back, but still, he needs to get over to the retard lane. Whoah!!! Did you just think that, Sylvia? Retard lane? Seriously? You’ve been in France WAY too long. You can’t say OUCH. Now who just scratched me? What the??? What is that woman wearing on her hands??? Damn, can’t see.

So back to the whole retard thing. You really can’t say that, you’ve got to come up with a better term. Hmmm…. Chicks who chat lane. That’s perfect! Stick with Chicks who Chat lane, gives the perfect image of all those lazy chicks hanging on the side. What are they doing here, anyway? Addicted to the scent of chlorine?

Made it! One lap down, dozens to go. No, no, stop that, no backstroke, remember the last time you attempt the backstroke. You got head butted. Twice. Oh, whoa!!! That woman is wearing huge, black rubber gloves! Looks like she’s trying to wash away evidence after a chainsaw murder… Hey, monsieur! That black lane of the pool bottom is a LANE!!! Stay in your lane!!! Damn it!!! I know we lost Waterloo, but really, we’re not British, in this counrty you drive to the right. Same for the lap pool, folks? Don’t any of you drive? Oh, wait, probably not, what with the metro and all….

And so it goes, on and on for 40 minutes. I’d feel like most of this was my fault for being a slow swimmer and lame navigator, but since I’ve been on a roll, I’ve had lots of Parisiennes come clean and admit they’ve abandoned the pool because the Parisiennes are simply im-poss-ible.

Hitting the beach…

I haven’t written in nearly a week, and I wasn’t even on holiday! I have been busy, busy getting ready for a press trip to the Côte d’Azur. I am so excited… this is going to be my first solo trip in ages. Does anyone have any pointers for me? Either your favorite solo travel tips, or your secret addresses on the French Riviera? Advice, suggestions, recommendations are welcome!!!

I will be down there preparing a mini guide on the region. I know it fairly well, especially the incredible wealth of art museums; Picasso, Matisse, Chagall, Cocteau…. SO mostly I need to research the timely stuff, like the restaurants and the festivals. It will be the Lemon Festival in Menton, and you know how I love my citrus fruit! But with all that, there is one place I am particularly excited to visit.

Before starting my junior year as an exchange student at the Sorbonne, I spent a summer in a language program in Antibes. I do not remember a single thing about that program. I can not tell you where the classes were held, what the building looked like, or the slightest detail about my professor. What I do remember was the Madame who hosted myself and two other American students. An exuberant platinum blond with a teen daughter and two young sons who was getting a divorce. I remember the flavor of her vinagrette, laced with the post delicious olive oils. And I remember her taking us to the beach one Saturday. Antibes beaches in the month of August tend to get crowded and sun worshippers were at their prayers, pretty much elbow to elbow when we arrived. Madame was not pleased and stomped over to the biggest available space she could find, uncomfortably near an uptight Parisian and his family. Monsieur was none to pleased with our proximity and started yelling at her to move.” Over there,” he gesticulated condescendingly to the other end of the beach.
Madame was having none of that and started laying out the towels for all of us, while screaming at the man, as the American students and I stood a few feet away, totally in awe at the exchange. Set up and ready to sun bath, Madame continued screaming as she threw her basket to the ground and started to strip before the Parisian, completely unabashed as her rather large boobs bounced a little to the left, then a lot to the right yelling her head off the entire time at this presumptuous man who was on her beach, in her town.

It took me a half an hour to brush the sand off my jaw after it had fallen to the ground and another half an hour before the Americans and I felt brave enough to take our tops off as well. That was my introduction to topless sunbathing. I took to it like a duck takes to water and found it by far the most comfortable way to stay at the beach. The Americans and I got so used to it that we’d just rip them off every time we were at the beach.

One day, the other students and I went for a wander. A train ride followed by a long hike along the beach. Eventually, the beach ended and there was a jetty of rocks and we were ready for some sun bathing. We sprawled out on those rocks and dozed off for a short while, feeling incredible chic and sophisticated in all our topless glory. A man started coming our way. I could hear him speaking loudly, but squinting through the sun, I saw that he was alone. That was odd. Even odder, he was wearing pants, and a blazer. We sat up and covered ourselves demurely just as he got to our little outcropping. “Ahem… excuse me ladies, but, well, you’re not in France anymore. This, is, um, Monaco, and well, the topless sunbathing at the private yacht club, where you’re clearly not members, well, I must ask you to leave.” The three of us were hoping a wave would come and swallow us up, we were so mortified.

That was my introduction to the Principality Monaco. We left and I have never been back, far too intimidated by the prospect. But now, I am going there for work, invited to stay at the Hotel de Paris and I have one mission in mind; Stroll into the casino, order myself a martini, shaken, not stirred and wait for a little adventure to come my way! Here’s hoping I have lots of fun stories to share! Cheers! Prost! Salute!

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...