Pas Chic

As I emptied out of the FDR Metro in the handsome Eighth Arrondisement, I opened up the magazine I'd found on the train and used it to cover my hair. The booklet for exotic vacations in some sunny Greek peninsula was holding up well in the drizzle, though my new haircut was not. My efforts to straighten it were wasted in the humidity and wind. My black wool coat was hanging on by one hastily fastened button.

"It would be my pleasure, but too bad I guess," said a man I passed who was equally unprepared for this weather. The fur on his mostly bald head was fluttering without an umbrella. I laughed and shrugged. At least he had offered to share his hypothetical rain coverage. It was sweet.

I had warned Jas in advance that I was under dressed, and now with my flyaway hair and runny nose it was a sure thing.

"I don't own anything business chic," I had said on her voicemail, "So I look like a librarian with too much cleavage instead."

Indeed, my brown boots underneath my A line below the knee skirt was not shabby with a brown satin camisole and complimenting sweater but it was not what I would consider chic. It's a problem I've had since I've moved here, battling with the Parisian Femmes who somehow manage to always look like they were dropped out of a magazine ad, even if they haven't showered in days. Alas I am not on the hunt for men and not looking to become a member of the Paris Elite so, to be perfectly honest, I didn't really care what I looked like. I thought only briefly about being accepted for dress code.

That is, until I got to the bar. On the street people were lined up on the sidewalks chatting on their cell phones and smoking. Each one was head to toe in black, some with an accent of white, but suddenly my navy skirt was devoid of class completely. The bar itself was heavily guarded by ear-pieced bouncers ushering people down a red carpet. At then end of the velvet ropes was a video camera.

I walked confidently up to the man on the side walk. A full head shorter than me, I towered over him in his suit.

"I'm on the list -" I started to say.

"No, I'm sorry," he said in French.

I thought for a moment that he didn't understand my French, or perhaps he didn't hear me. I tried again.

"No, I'm on the list."

"No, I'm sorry Miss you can't come in. The attire is 'Business Chic'", and he moved onto the next person.

Stunned I stood back for a moment, not sure what to do. I had never been turned down at any door, not in my whole life. Everything I had thought that evening about what I was wearing suddenly didn't matter. I wasn't chic enough? Oh no. Not me.

I marched back to the front of the line where grumpy dwarf was turning away another perfectly acceptable couple.

"Excuse me," I started in French, "How is what I am wearing not chic enough?"

"I'm sorry," he replied, "But now you know for the next time."

I had heard him speaking english to someone else and so I knew that he could understand it. I dove right in.

"Listen, I've been watching who you let in and I would just like to know how what I am wearing is not chic enough compared to these others? Is it not white enough? Not black enough? What?"

"It eez not beezness cheeck," he replied unapologetically, "I am soorry."

"But how is that chic but what I am wearing not?" I said to a woman wearing leggings as pants and a crumpled linen tunic. I see sixteen year olds in the same outfit every day on the Metro, pouting.

"Weeell," he said, "She know somebodee eer."

"Yes, but I know somebody here. I am on the list."

I was well aware that my snotty attitude was not going to get me in the door, but at this point it was more of a battle of principal. The people I saw going in were not of interest to me, I just wanted to prove to this short man with a complex that was, in fact chic enough.

Suddenly wee mans voice changed, deepened and I recognized immediately a smooth American accent.

"Look," he said, "The invitation said 'Business Chic'."

"What does that mean? I'm a beautiful young woman, what is so wrong with what I am wearing?"

"I'm sorry, don't take it personally. I've been given very specific directions. People who come in here need to be dressed to impress."

"What is that?" I demanded. Behind us a woman in jeans and a teeshirt was let in. An overtanned designer suited man grasped her exclaiming in French "THERE is the PRINCESS".

"She's wearing JEANS!"

"Well," said the Midget in a Monkey Suit, "She is a special guest. You are welcome to stand here all night, but you are not coming in."

He switched his accent back to false French and turned down yet another nicely dressed couple.

For awhile I did stand there, watching people going in, plotting who I could befriend and stroll in with arm and arm. I even tried lying profusely, saying that I had just flown in from New York, exclusively for this event and as a famous writer / artist they would be sorry to have not let me in. At one point a nice American man overheard me and asked if I wanted to go in with them and we tried, but Short Stuff would have none of it. In the end I called Jas who came outside, as incensed as I, and rescued me from starting a fight.

On the way to our Favorite Bar On The Planet, we laughed about how not chic I was and how underdressed most of the people inside had been. I felt bad for dragging her away from her event, but knew deep down that we weren't missing much. Over coifed men and fake-and-bake women do not appeal to me as fun, nor as chic. They are the "pretty" face of Paris, but Jas and I, we are bombshells. We are beauty with a side of class wrapped up in humor and fun, and a tall glass of intelligence and wit to boot. Chic ain't got nothing on us.

Baby's New 'Do

So today I got sick of pulling my hair back and decided to hack it all off in the bathroom. Well, actually I decided to give myself a trim which turned into one side longer than the other which I decided would look great as an assymetrical bob thing. This is what I look like now.

Mostly I think the bangs make my head look enormous, but it's better straightened (almost cute even) and so I can deal with that until it grows out and I can go get a cheap cut from some Parisian Salon Academy which is what I should have done in the first place. But I have no patience. The end.

Things I Have Not Shared

If you were to, for some reason, read back into my posts as far as this time last year, you would find that somethings have changed around here. As my mother and I like to joke I am, perhaps, finally maturing and maybe that is the reason for said changes. Or perhaps I am simply too busy these days between travel and friends and trying to make plans for what happens after.

Whatever it might be you will notice there is a distinct lack of information here. I no longer document every moment with or without my boyfriend (and how that might make me feel). I haven't told you anything about my job, excepting a few highlights and mishaps here and there. I will not be filling you in on the detailed happenings of my family, not really.

Part of me wonders if I have actually become a secretive person. That is, compared to the person whom I used to represent on this blog. My one time desire to write a tell-all shocker of a novel has dissipated in the interest of not losing friends (and not giving my mother a heart attack). I don't want to disclose the gritty bits that happen behind closed doors for public discussion.

And yet I am still the same person. If you were to meet me, I suspect I would offer you my life story if we had the time. I will always tell you my dreams even if you don't want to hear them. My slip ups and plunders will forever be public fodder. I will probably even fill you in on my random bodily functions from time to time, because let's face it my body is a bit weird.

Anyway no one ever said that keeping somethings personal is a bad thing. Just another change, some maturity, something else for you all to get used to. But I don't mind, do you?

Photos From Munich

Munich was: Old friends and new, dressed in Durndals, no make-up no boys, beautiful Bavaria, Chateaus turned Cloister, castles crowning quaint villages, porcelain children, a little bit of river runs through it, there in Eichstadt is the first traditional German meal, Babydoll Shivas, Maypoles for every quarter, clean lines, creepy collections, misuses of english, hand-thrown ceramics, bolts of lush fabric, used for each of these lovely dresses, the French quarter, crawling with vines of springtime ivy, rocky island barbecues, myfirstwurst, reminders of Austin, Gothic glockenspiels, it's totally me!, lovely light poles, paths paved in gold, Nasty nazi shadows, parking rows of bikes, colors on all the corners, stop lights for cyclists, "Wiener art" makes me think like a 12 year old, vibrant facades, real live second hand stores, everyones in the beer garden, and there are somethings that remain after all.

In short, Munich was lovely. My three hundred photos will be best served in one of the dozens of books I will make for myself from this years adventures. You can see the full size photos on my Flickr, but only the highlights.

We can move on now. Which means I am no longer on vacation.

Why NOT To Take 300 Photos On Vacation

I have been hesitating to post anything from Munich because I have a bit of a dilemma. Which of my 300 plus photos do I share with you all? I have considered doing a few mosaics to highlight my adventure, but even that requires that I actually choose files to upload. Then there is the issue of types of photos. I - like my mother - take lots of photos of things. I have at least a hundred photos of architecture and landscape and quaint countrysides. But I can't show them all to you. Toad insisted on this and by the end of the hour he asked very politely (and exhaustedly) "Are there a lot more?" I couldn't blame him.

Besides my inability to choose any photos, it's SPRING in Paris. The sun has been shining almost all week with temperatures nearing a wild 75 degrees. I have decided to throw a last minute back yard barbecue and much to my surprise I will have well over a dozen people attending (and counting). I feel like a sort of social Princess, being blessed with a visit from all my favorite people. Well, my favorite people in Paris, anyhow.

So I am off to clean, to pick up cat poop from the yard, to try to find the light switches to the walkway, to wash my new vintage dress, to grocery shop, to read in the sun...

As you can see my three hundred photos are not totally pressing. The inspiration will come to me, I feel sure. Just in time for me to add photos of this fabulous Friday night picnic.

Way Home

On the short walk to the taxi I decidedly regretted my choice to bring back beer. Even on wheels, my suitcase weighed down my whole body. I didn’t even like the idea of beer as a gift, but my lack of funds had left me with a lack of creativity as well. Souvenir Beer. Why not?

Though a bit stressful at times, my trip to Munich was ultimately lovely. I stick to the idea that German isn’t a lovely language, but suspect that I could pick it up without too much trouble if I need be. The weather had been cold for what I consider spring, but no place is Texas. The buildings in Munich were newer and lacked the romantic character I have been spoiled by, but no place is like Paris.

The Germans were friendly though, with their thick hands and heavy chins. They smiled and were not dismayed when I didn’t even make an attempt to speak their language. They rode their bikes around the wide streets of their city, forgetting easily that they were Hilter’s sick gift to his marching soldiers despite the daily tour guides past all shadows of swastikas and sadness.

As my high speed train sped out of Germany I was happy that I had not chosen the night train back even though it had cost me an extra twenty euros. I was even sort of happy that I wasn’t flying (but not happy to have lost nearly two hundred euros on the plane ticket), because after the previous days rain the verdant rolling countryside was brilliant in the sun. We passed ancient towns, spared the destruction of war, looking like colorful toy sets arranged by the hand of a busy child. Patches of greens and browns were smattered with grey stucco houses and weathered barns divided by dirt roads. Along the tracks cherry trees bloomed in white.

I changed trains in Stuttgart. I was pleased by the German efficiency to not only place my train directly across from the one I depart, but my car as well. I strolled quickly across the platform, plopping down in a completely full train. I recognize something funny happen as I hear the familiar SNCF chimes and the roll of a French “R”. I am happy to be back in the arms of this chaotic French entity. I can’t - and do not - fight the pleasant sensation that I am going home.

When Dining in Bavaria

Be sure to choose a restaurant that has all the locals and only one woman. Speak english and when you get served your traditional German meal make sure that everyone looks at you in awe. Take their photo.


Especially this guy.

Love the countryside.

Night Train to Munich

Because, as previously stated, I do not have my mothers packing or planning abillities I missed my plane. By six minutes, in fact, causing a rather dramatic outpouring (surprise!) at the Air France desk.

“To get on another plane it will be 440 euro.”

“What?!” I nearly reached across the counter and strangled her by her ugly little Air France scarf.

After a hysterical, face-going-numb-everyone-is-looking-at-me moment on the phone with Toady, it was decided that there was no flight sollution to Munich. Not in the next month, anyhow. I composed myself a little, made a frantic phone call to Ksam who sent and email to Ames for me asking her to call, and then tracked down the Relay where I could buy access to the airport’s WiFi. For once my constant need to be connected paid off. I had momentarily considered leaving my computer at home.

For thirty minutes I juggled phone calls between Toad and Ames discussing options and sifting through websites to try all of them. Even though I was already at the airport, getting on another plane was out of the question. I thought briefly about renting a car but between the cost (361 Euros!) and the prospect of being lost somewhere between Paris and Munich in the middle of the night I opted against that.

Finally we located the site for the night trains and at a hefty 134 Euros it was still cheaper than any other of the options so I bought the ticket. The catch? The train left in an hour.

I got in the first taxi in the line, not at all interested in wasting anymore time. Charles de Gaulle, like most major airports, isn’t really that close to Paris and this was a little stressful. I immediately explained to the driver that I needed to get to Gare de L’Est and now, and he promised me that we would make it on time. As the meter and minutes flew by, Toad called me to inform me that he had done the math and I would not.

“Are you sure?” I said, growing teary.

The cab driver caught my face in the rearview and huffed, frustrated.

“I said I would get us there and I will! Look, we’re not far!”

I huffed back in response.

I threw an extra ten dollars at him which finally - after what seemed like the longest cab ride ever - got him to speed through the remaining red lights and deposit me at the station.

Inside the Gare I broke into a sweat, tripping over my old rolling suitcase and stumbling to the yellow ticket machines, all while on the phone with Toad.

“It’s not working!” I cried frantically. “Why isn’t it working I bought the ticket it should work!”

“Look,” he said reasonably, “We’ll sell the ticket you have and buy you one from here on Tuesday morning. You will only miss a day.”

I hung up the on him midsentence, deciding I could make it if I could just focus and find the ticket desk. Of course it was in the furthest corner of the station and of course there were three people in front of me.

In sweaty, raspy and tearstained french I asked if I could push in front of all the people in line so I could make my train.

“It’s leaving now!”

Compassionate souls they were (or maybe just frightened) they let me pathetically pass them for a last ditch effort.

“Can I still make the train?” I asked the vendor.

“If you go very fast,” he replied.

And I did. Even though I don’t ever run, I ran lugging suitcases and all. In front of me the conductor blew the last whistle call.

“No no no no no!” I said waving my ticket.

“Get on there!” he hollered back. And I did. Barely.

“Breath,” said the conductor on the train, “It’s free.”

I had been ignoring Toady’s calls while trying to make the train and so when I answered out of breath the only thing he could say was “Tell me.”

“I’m on.”

“Really!? How did you find a ticket counter in one minute?”

“I ran,” I said laughing.

“Well.” he said, impressed. “Mazoltov.”

“Thank you,” I replied graciously, ridiculously happy to know that he had been there on the other line (with his brother and sister-in-law, I might add) working my plan B the whole time. That, kids, is real love.

And that is how I ended up in a smelly hostel style bunk cabin with five other people rolling through France in the middle of the night. It’s what one might call grace but it’s certainly some kind of style. Why take the easy road when you can take the night train instead?

Travelin'

I remember when I was a kid watching my mother pack the bags for our trips in complete awe. I couldn't imagine remembering everything and she always remembered everything. Now, I pack my bags thinking with the kind of disregard that makes my mother cluck her tongue and shake her head. But what I've discovered is that, when you are going to a different city, you usually can still get the things you forgot to bring. This comes in handy when you forget to pack underwear. Which I have done several times.

All that to say that I'm off to another country today and that's so damn cool to me that I don't really care what I've put in my suitcase. Munich, here I come!

It's a good Easter, indeed. I hope you all are as blessed today as I feel!

Pictures of Me In the Shower

Well, I didn't say I was naked. But see that drink in my hand? That should explain everything.

In case you are wondering, that is the shower in one of the luscious suites at Mama Shelter, where me and the girls celebrated a bit of spring last night. The bar is chic, all of the drinks are amazing and there is a too die for terrace opening in the near future. And though we didn't stay the night we were privileged to a private tour of the hotel by the charmingly sweet owner. I am sure that he's secretly from Brooklyn, because he was too friendly to really be French.

Needless to say, this morning when I felt like a truck had run me over, but I was happy to get out of bed to the gate bell (for the third day in a row) to receive a care package from the sweet Biddy. She paid WAY too much for it.

...But it was full of delightful treasures. Music...

ADORABLE handmade bookends.

A fluffy throw blanket!

Books! Perfect reads for trains and planes.

And of course food from home. There were also tortillas, enchilada mix to boot.

Mmmm, macaroni and cheese. I found it quite funny that the box had been opened at customs. Yes boys, it's JUST noodles.

Packages from home make me warm and fuzzy.

Sun Worshipper

I grew up in town that, similarly to Austin, averaged about three hundred days of sun a year. I have always lived in places like that and though the climates have varied (Austin: nine months of summer. Philadelphia: snowy cold winters) I have always benefited from the accepting the UV in my general direction.

I got a little warning when I was coming to Paris that it was a bit dreary. Somehow I never imagined this, probably to do with some Hollywood twist on the City filled with roses and love and rainbows ending in buckets of puppies. And, to be fair, when I arrived here we were all enjoying a nice long Indian Summer. Dreary? Not possible.

(Abandoned bar, in sunlight)

Then the winter came. I suddenly knew exactly the reasons bears hibernate and every day I woke and poked my head out my curtains hoping to spy a break in the clouds, my morale was struck down! by the rain and the cold and the cold and the rain and the drizzle. On top of my depression I got two cases of Seasonal Effective Disorder and a side of lack of motivation. The only thing I wanted to do was stay inside.

(Sunny but cold)

Oh but the spring arrived! Toad and I spent a whole afternoon napping on the Seine and warming our toes.

(Her toes looked so happy...)

(That I stole the idea.)

Sarah and I basked in the heat of a beating sun, over dressed for nice weather. People brought out their sandals and I considered leaving my heavy wool coat at the cleaners to be mended.


But, as I discovered yesterday, the Spring is a fickle mistress and somedays she decides to file her nails in bed rather than grace us generously with her beauty. Needless to say I did the same thing yesterday.

The sun is out today, though, and I can feel a lightness in my face that is something like a smile. I fixed myself a healthy lunch and am gearing up to do the house cleaning early so that I can begin my vacation tomorrow rather than suffering through a Friday locked inside ironing. Though my house is a terrible mess I am not as appalled by it today as I was yesterday. I even feel like writing.

(The progress on my writing is about as fast as this guy.)

All because of that lovely blue sky. Yes, I am easy to please.

What's To Love

My first foray into the Parisian art scene was a bust. Not that I had grand expectations for the first of my self proclaimed networking functions, not really. The first try at any new thing is like cooking the first crepe - it's alway kind of a disaster and even if it tastes good it still looks like someone threw up in the skillet and stirred it a little.

I wasn't terribly surprised to find that the gallery opening I chose for Tuesday night was less than exciting. The florescent lighting was harsh and the art hung on the walls lankly like the wallpaper in a dentists office. In the corner, next to an exposed hallway filled with the older exhibitions stacked on each other, was a folding table with the remnants of some freezer food and a some kind of orange juice punch that had been sipped dry.

I am not one to criticize another artists bright moment - my own exhibition was in a dirty hippy cafe - and so my friend and I made note of the better points of the art, I took a flyer and we pushed past the entire party (who was outside on the sidewalk smoking) to find a bite to eat.

I have seen the gallery, though, and that was my goal. The "networking" will have to come in another form for now.

Next week I go to Munich to visit an old friend and for that I am not too sorry that I will miss the opening for Bérangère Haëgy's new exhibition at the Popy Arvani Gallery. I am intrigued by the way she is challenging our dear old friend Barbie and what we always pretended her life was like. Although I have to admit that my Barbies definitely had sex.

I totally have an art crush on this woman. I can't wait to see the exhibition in person.

I Need Warnings

I like to know what to expect, and I mean this in the particular sense that when I wake up in the morning to the sound of the gate bell on a weekday I don't expect it to be anyone except the postman bringing me a lovely package.

So this morning, after I buzzed mystery person in, I quickly threw on pants and then SHIT it rained! so I threw on shoes and DAMN! it's still raining! so I grabbed an umbrella only to find that mystery person had been let in by Host Dad who was still at the house. Probably waiting for said person to arrive.

I went back to the apartment and crawled back in bed to check my email, only to be disrupted by a rapping on my door. It was Host Dad with said person.

"Can we come in and see the cable?" He asked.

Noooooo, I thought. But let him in anyway.

He entered and looked immediately at the comely black cat who was stretching herself on my bed (and whom is, in theory, not supposed to be in my apartment).

"Oh, she is here!" He said laughing and giving me a look that I could only interpret as "How interesting that the cat who is not supposed to be here is here and what do you have to say for yourself exactly?"

I smiled and shrugged and went to turn on the tea kettle. No explanations before noon (and caffeine). Not without a warning.

Fourth Quarter Pipe Dreams

Right now I am sitting next to a thick stack of printer paper that I would love to call the manuscript to my book. It's two hundred pages of nearly three hundred, and I am sort of impressed by the volume. Unfortunately it's not my book, it's part of my blog. Part of my blog - the part that I am going to being meticulously sifting through for parts what might someday be my book.

For the moment it is simply laying on my bed - next to the comely deaf cat whom I have let in because I need the company tonight - but tomorrow I will begin reading the bitter bits of it, throwing out the crap that you all so patiently read but I won't be putting in the book. I have decided I have enough stones to make a stew out of.

Littering the apartment are signs of a life that needs organizing: A sack with heavy paper and a new set of exactos; the beginnings of a mock for my new piece; A small stack of magazines donated by Toad for the start of said piece. Books - half in French, half in English all left mostly unread - stacked against the TV and on my night table. The beginnings of a healthy life hiding in the corners in the form of vegetable and yoga mats.

I'm plotting and scheming.

And Then Dennis Leary Yelled At Me

Last night I had one of those weird, broken, drenched in sweat kind of nights. I'm not sure about the night sweats, but apparently I subconsciously am in love with Dennis Leary.

He is kinda hot, in a "I'm an asshole" kind of way.

Well, anyway, he was cheating on his young, lovely wife with me and we weren't very good at hiding the thing. He was a teacher, that was why, and he tried to kiss me in front of all his students. Me, I worked in an office below him and because my supervisor didn't understand that we were having an affair, she was convinced that when he called on the croissant phone that he was giving me a promotion. In the end he yelled at me in the hallway because he thought I had told his nanny we were sleeping together, but really she just figured it out on her own. She was one smart cookie. I cried in the stairwell. Jerk.

Then I was in the garden of a school yard with two adorable baby boys. I started poking in the grass at some gooey, red thing only to find out that it was really a hairy red viper and I was pissing it off. Quickly it slithered out from beneath it's log and lunged for my face.

Did you know that people can jump in their sleep? Because apparently I am quite good at dodging snake attacks and the like when I am comatose. I woke up on my knees, flopped toward the end of the bed and squashing the cat. Sorry cat. But I did get away from the viper.