i certainly am a francophile. what's better than Paris? Parisian vin et fromage and related fare, boulangeries, and snazzy looking people at every step, not a yoga pant, flip flop or camel-toe on an unsightly fat woman in site?? and if you know me and don't know about my lavender fields outside of Paris dreams then hey, i'm Mel, and we haven't met. a Parisian professor speaking English, with that Frenchy accent? i'm melting. an afternoon in a random cafe sipping some simply exquisite cafe au lait or looking out a window at the rooftops of the fifth arrondissement? sign me up, s'il vous plait!!
my parents lived in Paris before coming to the States, and this presents a real dilemma of pseudo-nostalgia for me. i could be be asleep in my Parisian flat right now, dreaming in fluent French, any number of Hermes or the like scarves waiting to be flung around my neck when i leave in my chic crocodile-skin slingback flats in the morning on my way to have petite-dejeuner with mes amies Celine et Monique. but no. Brooklyn, miss.
i really don't have a problem with that either, i guess, being that i'm here, and here is better than being nowhere.
last year, Tash and I spent the most glorious week in Paris. one day while shopping, i took off the dress i was wearing, my faaavorite-ever raggy cotton sundress from back home and changed into whatever it was i was getting in its stead at some certainly beyond cute boutique in the Marais. you know, so i could have that all-appropriate i'm French so I'm effortlessly sexy look whilst having my afternoon casse-croute on the cobblestones, right? well, i forgot to take that dress out of the bag later that night and the next day, the maids naturally made sure that the bag and the dress with it and all the rest of our garbage remnants made their way ever so efficiently to the nearest French dumpster and that was the end of my favorite-ever sundress. i was pretty devastated but managed to put myself back on track, merci.
that day while we were snacking on the sidewalk, a gorgeous couple came out on the street not looking or speaking to each other. the guy turned on the moped and let it rev forever while they both just stood around, not speaking or looking to each other. finally, one of the older Parisian women with impeccable makeup and sass next to us got up sauntered over and asked them how it was worldly possible that they could have such little class. the guy muttered something that i imagine was the French version of please fuck off madame, and then he and the girl both saddled up and moved along, not a word or contact of the eye between them.
i tried to find this great pic i have of a Parisian pigeon, but who knows where that's at now. this here is Izi, a poodle, which seems Parisian enough
my parents lived in Paris before coming to the States, and this presents a real dilemma of pseudo-nostalgia for me. i could be be asleep in my Parisian flat right now, dreaming in fluent French, any number of Hermes or the like scarves waiting to be flung around my neck when i leave in my chic crocodile-skin slingback flats in the morning on my way to have petite-dejeuner with mes amies Celine et Monique. but no. Brooklyn, miss.
i really don't have a problem with that either, i guess, being that i'm here, and here is better than being nowhere.
last year, Tash and I spent the most glorious week in Paris. one day while shopping, i took off the dress i was wearing, my faaavorite-ever raggy cotton sundress from back home and changed into whatever it was i was getting in its stead at some certainly beyond cute boutique in the Marais. you know, so i could have that all-appropriate i'm French so I'm effortlessly sexy look whilst having my afternoon casse-croute on the cobblestones, right? well, i forgot to take that dress out of the bag later that night and the next day, the maids naturally made sure that the bag and the dress with it and all the rest of our garbage remnants made their way ever so efficiently to the nearest French dumpster and that was the end of my favorite-ever sundress. i was pretty devastated but managed to put myself back on track, merci.
that day while we were snacking on the sidewalk, a gorgeous couple came out on the street not looking or speaking to each other. the guy turned on the moped and let it rev forever while they both just stood around, not speaking or looking to each other. finally, one of the older Parisian women with impeccable makeup and sass next to us got up sauntered over and asked them how it was worldly possible that they could have such little class. the guy muttered something that i imagine was the French version of please fuck off madame, and then he and the girl both saddled up and moved along, not a word or contact of the eye between them.
i tried to find this great pic i have of a Parisian pigeon, but who knows where that's at now. this here is Izi, a poodle, which seems Parisian enough
