Phew Monday. I'm back in the MIA and a bit weary from the time clock being
off, but happy to have the day off to ease back into real life. I feel great
being back in Miami, which is rather surprising after two weeks in a place
that has big red check marks in the places I'd like to spend all my days
department. Great food and wine. Check.
Effortless chic and loads of black being worn by everyone. Check.
High, high culture and amazing museums. Check.
History and charm up the hoo ha. Check.
Beauty just about everywhere you look- from the buildings to the bridges to
the patisserie windows. Check.
Oh and did I mention the amazing food and wine? Check.
(These are in no particular order PS. Not sure a wardrobe of noir is above
history and charm and art but I digress).
But a word about the French. It's not untrue what people say. I'm just
putting it out there. They make Miamians seem positively Midwestern, which
is a feat if you have spent any time in my current hometown.
I don't think it's simply directed at Americans either. I feel it's probably
more of a general malaise for people who didn't grow up eating baguettes for
breakfast. Here I was, making futile efforts to communicate. I'm no expert,
but I can speak enough French to order lunch and listen to directions to
Sacre Coeur. I have about 7 years of French under my belt from junior high
up to my first year of college. So while I was impressed with my ability to
tell gauche from droite, the French seemed less so. And to make matters
worse, they repeat every phrase or address you so proudly ask them about
just to rub your face in how crap your accent is. At the end of long days of
storming the city Bastille style, I simply got too tired to try to think in
French, so I would say as much, with a smile. That they seemed to
appreciate. It's hard to win with them, though maybe that is part of their
charm.
I guess it was ridiculous of me to assume that because I am not exactly a
white sneaker, fanny pack wearing American tourist, the French would greet
me with open arms and serenade me with old Edith Piaf songs, armed with
gifts of macarons and wine. They didn't. But here's what they did do. Quite
a lot of shrugging. It's an art form there. I'll call it "le shrug" from
here on out. And no I'm not talking about that weird little bolero sweater.
This is much more intense.
One of my favorite instances of "le shrug" was a rather futile attempt to
shop in COS, a sort of grown up version of H&M, it's owned by them in fact.
I am sure if you are reading this as a European resident, you are already
quite over this store, but to an American it's intriguing and attainable,
and also quite chic. I had left David in a café in search of a shoe store (K
Jacques) I had spotted on one of our evening walks in the Marais. In the
darkened window I had spotted a pair of clog boots that were somewhat
Frankenstein-esque but cool in a Rick Owens sort of way. As I feverishly
attempted to retrace my steps, I got a bit turned about and ended up in COS.
There I found four dresses and a sweater of modest price, which actually fit
my non waif like American (well really Eastern European if you want to get
technical) curves. I also found a fabulous pair of suede wedged boots which
made my heart sing, and did not break the bank. (Shopping in Paris has a
real Oliver Twist element to it- you simply can't afford most places and end
up feeling a bit like a bedraggled orphan instead of a triumphant shopper).
Since I had my heart set on the Frankenstein boots, which I knew would be a
pretty euro, I asked the "kind" shopgirl to hold my finds behind the counter
for about 20 minutes while I went to find the shoes, just in case they were
the must have of the trip. She smiled at me and said she would do that, but
laughed when I said my name was Sheri. (I think the French find that an
American having a bastardized version of one of their terms of endearment is
somewhat hilarious).
I left the store, confident I would be back for the dresses and boots or
would score the clog numbers. It seemed like a win win.
I finally found the shoe store and tried on the Franko boots. They made me
look mentally unsound (way too big and clunky for my not small feet) so I
trotted back to COS to redeem my items. A word about shopping in France-
it's a bit like bikram retail. They don't believe in cooling systems so
imagine trying on chunky knits and boots in sweltering heat. Not that fun.
Anyway, the line was very long in the store but I happily waited and sweated
with visions of Euro basics in my brain. I found some boots by the front
door that were the same as the ones I tried on, but fit me better, so I had
those in tow as well. (Shoe sizes are a bit elusive).
I watched as the Frenchman at the register was having a rather languid chat
with a customer, in which he held up each of her items (there were about dix
neuf if I counted correctly) and proceeded to expound on each piece as if he
was writing a dissertation on each. I tried to keep my patience, but I was
beginning to huff and puff, while the French girls in line seemed completely
nonplussed.
Finally my moment arrives and I ask the cashier to retrieve my held items.
He asked me my name, laughed a bit again, and went to look for them. And
guess what? They weren't there. Because he sold them to the girl in front
of me as I watched before my own very eyes. SACRE FUCKING BLEU. As I puzzled
over how to talk to him about this, I decided to cut my losses and just buy
the boots, the ones in my hand. I questioned him about the items, about how
Aurelie had put them behind the counter for me, and about me being gone for
no more than ten minutes. And what did the clothing theorist do? He simply
shrugged at me. And it smarted. It was like a punch to the gut, some spit in
the eye, and a tetanus shot in the arm all at once.
Now if this was New York, they would most likely apologize (not really
meaning it but still) and offer to go out onto the floor and recover the
items they had sold. But not in Paris, people. All you get is a shrug. And a
pair of boots you were lucky to snag on your way in line. Oh and excessive
heat flashes.
This was not the only shrug I got PS. I got to experience many versions in
many neighborhoods. I think the French find being overly pleasant boring and
blasé, since the town seems steeped in a mild form of crankiness that is
savored and as handcrafted as a brioche.
I did notice an immaculate treatment of their children and families though,
in which they smother each other with kisses and hugs as though the world
were ending that instant. And the love and passion they give to each piece
of Camembert and each tartare speak volumes to the ability to be kind to
each other and if not to non French people, raw meat at least. So basically
I'm saying the French prefer raw meat to me, which is fine I suppose as I
benefit from such choices too. But I was looking for a little more love from
the French, as I have always abnormally admired them and would love some
back. (I was complimented by a few of them on some things I was wearing, and
that made my heart sing. I think that's high praise coming from the French,
who don't seem that free with such things).
I'm not hating, I'm just observing. The French shrug is sort of as essential
as the scarf or the ever present cigarette. (The French do seem to have some
respiratory problems too. A lot of hacking and sputtering and coughing from
all the cigs).
So if you go to Paris, don't expect them to love you because you know how to
dress or how to be polite and not loud. Just be prepared for a lot of raised
shoulders and an elegant dismissal of your needs. The shrug is part c'est la
vie, part I am not responsible for your desires, and part you bore me. The
French are truly prickly but lovely- sort of like a lover you can't get
enough of, even though they drive you crazy. With that in mind, you'll do
just fine.
And that's what's up this Columbus Day back in the MIA. Off to the gym to
work off my excessive enjoyment of France's food porn. XO
(PS- to master le shrug you must stick out your lower lip and raise your
eyebrows while doing it. Just in case you want to take it for a test run
this afternoon when someone asks you for something you are not interested in
delivering- oh and thats not me in the picture in case you were wondering...just a master of the high art of le shrug).
