The Way It Goes Down

"You can tell you're American!" He shouted across the living room, laughing. "No one in Paris goes to a party dressed like this!"

"Oh whatever!" I replied in dismay. If I had not been as drunk I surely would have cried. "That's bullshit!"

"No, look around," he went on. The girls behind him sniggered. "Look at how these girls are dressed, no one would ever dress like you!"

"First of all," I began, emblazoned with anger at this short man's opinion, "This is a hat party, is it not? And I this outfit goes appropriately with my hat. Secondly, this is Paris. People dress however the hell they want!"

The girls continued to laugh and clearly his point was made. I most definitely was the only person in attendance who happened to look like they accidently dropped by from the thirties. But damnit, I loved my skirt and who was he to comment?

And somehow this was the thing I took away from my first official french party. Not how nice everyone was (excepting this instance, of course) and it wasn't how much fun I had dancing (despite my decision to wear heels which caused a severe pain to radiate up through my ankles) and it wasn't how funny it was to see four french girls line dancing. No, it was this, this stupid off handed, definititely drunken comment about my outfit.

It's about keeping up with appearances. It's also about the ironic conversation I had with Sarah just a few hours before - a discussion about wearing what makes you happy because how do you really "fit in" to Paris fashion? It shouldn't be, certainly, but it's a real concern for us because already we stand out as obviously American (well, I do) and it's hard to not want to ease that awkwardness by dressing the part of a true Parisienne.

That being said fashion here is all over the map. One girl wears the flare jeans and the other the skinny. One girl wears a short skirt with high heels and bare legs and another girls wears the same skirt with bright tights and converse. One girl wears something delicate and flowy and the next has a tough rocker look. So what trend am I supposed to follow? What if I don't particular care for any of those looks? Why should I have to conform, anyway?

Conformity, there's a word I've never been too good with. Because there is little fun in being just like everyone else. But here, for now, conformity is also a word for adaptation. It's doing something so that one does not get unnecesarily roughed up on the playground by the older kids. It's not drawing attention to oneself.

I don't speak french. I don't know my way around. I do not want to be picked out of the line up for any other minor failings.

So this afternoon I hang my lovely pocketed wool skirt out in the sun to try to rid it of the cigarette smell and wonder if I'll be brave enough to wear it again.

I'll decide to revisit the issue again when the hangover is gone.