A Moveable Feast
Paris...What can I say? It was surprisingly painless. No jaw popping incidents, no self-inflicted flames, no knock down overly dramatic situations. Just great food, great company, and great times. Of course there was loads of work, which thus resulted in loads of celebratory shopping, at the completion of this work. And, more than once a day I found myself day-dreaming again about returning, on a more permanent basis, to the city of lights.
I feel at home in France, in a way I never will in Holland. I love the food, the culture, the history, the fashion, the architecture, the film, the people (yes, the people! For all of those who find the French arrogant or rude. I’ve never. Never once. Of course they think very highly of their country, of their culinary accomplishments, of their artists, their writers, their poets. But why shouldn’t they? Isn’t it for all those reasons why literally millons of people flock to France each year? Those who find them rude are perhaps misinterpreting their lack of ability in English for rudeness. But trust me, if you think the French are rude! Hah! Try living in Holland! You ain’t seen nothing’ yet baby!! I digress...)
But above all, I love France’s ever-present "joie de vivre". Nobody seems to enjoy the simple pleasures of life more than the French.
I'll stay put in Amsterdam for now, after all, as Ernest Hemingway once said, "If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast".
Parler Paris
Kinda makes you feel rude, eh? Like your taking a look up someone's skirt! Not my intention, I promise!!
Quick happy birthday greetings to the Bro (and brotherly blogger, StungEye), and of course the one and only Daddio (who for some reason isn't enamoured by his affectionate nickname Paps).
Too much work to Blog!
Love from Par-ee!
~Dazzle
Paris, my drug of choice
When everything seems a little too much, I can always count on Paris to cheer me up. I arrived here yesterday morning, and the sun was shinning, the birds were singing, and best of all, the sales season was still in full swing!
In amongst catching up on emails and a few meetings I was able to grab a bite at my favourite restaurant, CoJean, stop by my favourite designer discounter shop (only looked today!), and browse through the endless edible delights at Fauchon’s (a.k.a the millionaire’s supermarket).
I don’t know what it is about Paris that always puts me in an instantaneous good mood. It sends me on a high that spills over to my return in Amsterdam. I was complaining to M. about this trip “I don’t feeeel like travelling, or staying in a hotel again”. And he said, “C, you say that every time you go to Paris, and then you come home on a buzz, bouncing off the walls.”
Everytime I come here I am also overwhelmed by this incredible feeling of itchy feet. There are so many opportunties, so many career possibilities here, that its all very overwhelming and exciting at the same. I want to dive in, to have a piece of it all, and to get started already. The tough part would be transplanting my life back over here. Hmmm....that's a doozy....
Shopaholic goes to Paris
It’s probably a good thing I don’t permanently live in Paris. This month has been a little hard on the budget. As most of you know, I like to indulge in the occasional shopping binge every once in a while ---ok, that is a bold face lie ---it’s more like a perpetual shopping binge. In Holland, however, my fashion addiction has been pleasantly under control. I can’t say it is due to a new found will power though. No, the sad reality is, I just can’t find anything to buy!! (Shocking, I know!!) Dutch fashion leaves a lot to be desired. There’s not a huge amount of individuality in the fashion scene, and not matter what season it is, prepare yourselves for racks of bright orange, red and pink clothing!
In Paris, however, I can barely even step outside my apartment without seeing something I love. The short ten minute walk to the metro is painful and includes a walk by Miss Coquines (a shoe/accessory lover’s paradise), Naf Naf, and a handful of adorable boutiques.
And so, phone calls have been made to the credit card company, money has been juggled amongst accounts, and tags have been promptly ripped off newly purchased items which have been immediately hung in the closet (“This new? Nooooo, I’ve had that for years!”)
I have found that by cutting back on my grocery bill, I can easily accommodate a tad more shopping. The discount supermarket down the street has become my friend, along with its range of (slightly tasteless) no-name products. The sacrifices we make!
After a particular bad spell of over-spending, I called my mom in Canada to confess my sins. Turns out she too had been hitting the racks that weekend and amongst the two of us we were able to justify every item we had purchased. (“You needed that new jacket Mom, your old one was in a horrible state.” “You have to look professional for meetings C, I would say you probably even need a few more suits”)
It was music to my ears! I can always count on the momma!
Anticlimax
: an event (as at the end of a series) that is strikingly less important than what has preceded it.
I’ve always been really bad with endings. I just can’t let things go. I hate to see things come to an end, for people to move on, for things to change.
My event this weekend was a huge success. And to be honest, I can’t believe I actually pulled it off. The day passed by relatively hiccup-less. Over two thousand people showed up, the presentations and seminars were very popular, and the exhibitors thrilled! Most importantly my bosses were highly impressed, and are already anticipating next year’s edition. The whole team was taken out for dinner, in my honour---to a spectacular place in Paris (Barrio Latino--it’s definitely on my top 3 coolest resto/bars I have been to in Europe).
This morning I woke up with a pounding headache and a heavy sense of loss. What will I do now? I really revelled in the challenge of this project, and now that it is over my day-to-day work seems trivial in comparison. Luckily I have one more week in Paris, to actually take in the sights and sounds, and kick back a little.
It’s too early to start planning next year’s edition, but I have already have a couple tricks up my sleeve to bring me back to Paris a few times over the next couple months ;)
Ahhhhh.....its now time to relaaaxxx....
The Big Day
And so, over six months of planning and work will culminate this weekend into a 1-day, 8-hour event. The big exhibition I have been organizing in Paris is no longer a horribly complicated project plan in Excel, but a (daunting) reality.
I know there’s still the possibility of a million and one things going belly-up on the big day, but I am surprisingly calm about the whole thing. Truth be told, I can’t wait until it is all over. I can’t wait until the day comes when I can leave work at a decent hour, not even contemplate checking my work emails at home, and have a work/stress free weekend. I have been happily daydreaming of all I am going to do with my new-found free time!
I still find myself under the curse of Paris, however this time she has managed to seduce me entirely. Days are spent imagining myself living here full time and calling up M. in the middle of the night suggesting “let’s move back to Paris!” I do love it here...
Fashion frenzy
And so Miranda and I were luckily enough to attend not one, but two fashion shows over the weekend. The first one was by Russian designer Alena Akmhadullina. The clothes were a disappointment (who likes shapeless granny dresses anyways?!), however, the over the top hairdos and masks were definitely worth the wait (that’s them above!!)
The best part of the show, however, had to be the spectacle that took place in the audience. Between the dramatic entrances (“Bonjjjjjourrrrr Cherieeeeeeeeee”) the elaborate living accessories (dali-esque moustaches, babies slung eloquently over one arm,teacup Chihuahuas skittering around), and the mandatory 3 kisses (muuu-aah!), I felt like I was on the set of some Fashion Mockumentary.
The second show was Gardem (“the 29 year old, Lebannon born, Paris based independent designer who label has been stirring up the boutique crowd for several seasons”). The clothes were absolutely stunning and the models freakishly beautiful. Miranda and I were in awe...After the show we gawked in amazement as each stunning model left with a hairy, less-than-gorgeous boyfriend who barely reached their waists!
You can only imagine how much work I have to do, as today I was invited to the Lagerfeld show, and painfully declined!!! Quelle Domage!!
"Please, no pictures"
Cheating is as French as Brie? Mais, oui!
And so, please tell me how I end up with a 50 year old French man sitting in my living room pouring his heart out to me and justifying his affair with a married Irish woman?!? Please explain to me why people feel the need to divulge their deepest and darkest secrets to me after only minutes of meeting me for the first time. Last week I met a 45 year old business woman from Toronto at a networking event who almost broke into tears telling me how she can’t find a husband, and a 30 year old African conference interpreter who told me she doesn’t have the confidence to follow her dreams.
I am beginning to see a pattern here...
Back to the married French man in my living room --he personified what I will never fully understand about the French and their laiser-faire attitude towards infedelity. I have met dozens of married men who have spoke openly about their mistresses (heck—two have even offered me the role), and they all say the same thing--their friends know, their wife knows, and even their kids know, but they all still go along with it, pretending to be picture of marriage perfection. Because isn’t it easier that way?
As author Christiann Anderson states, "Cheating is as French as Brie... the French do not view infidelity the same way we do in the United States. The concept of cheating on one's spouse does not necessarily mean that you must give up your family life. In other words, having a lover, and having a spouse is not a trade off."
People may criticize North America’s sky high divorce rate, but what’s worse; ending a marriage or living an elaborate loveless lie?
Case #2
There is this cute little gadget shop near the hotel I always stay at in Paris. On my way back from lunch with my mother I spy a stylish little picnic set in the window. Bright colours and polka dots stare back and lure me in. I quickly breeze around the store, reminding myself sternly of yesterday’s overspending.
As I am about to leave, a little ornament by the cash register catches my eye. It looks like a small metallic mandarin orange. Hmmm, funky. I pick it up, shake it, and tip it upside down. Nothing. I notice a small button on the top and press it. Again nothing. I press it again, this time a bit harder, and hear a faint noise. Ah ha, a radio! Lifting it up to my ear, I notice my mother’s face from across the store. She is looking at me completely dumbfounded, like I have just pulled a gun out of my bag, or flashed the cute cashier.
It takes a second to register what has just happened. Eeek, fire! I look up, and see the side of my hair burst into flames. Next thing I know the cute cashier has jumped across the counter and is madly pounding on the side of my head and muttering in French. Utter humiliation. The fire is put out. The whole store is now looking at me, with perplexed looks on their faces.
My mother and I collapse outside the shop in a heap of laughter. Stares follow us. I hear a fellow tourist whisper, "Did that girl just put a lighter to her head?"
Yep. Yes, she did!
WARNING: Paris is bad for your health
Don’t be disillusioned by the beautiful architecture, the smell of freshly baked croissants drifting from the patisseries or the beautiful people milling around. Paris is bad for your health. Or at least it is in my case.
The last two trips I have taken to Paris have somehow resulted in bizarre, and yes, slightly painful situations. Do I attract these situations? Is it a coincidence? I will give you this much--I will admit that in both cases, I may have been partially to blame.
Case #1
I had been working at an exhibition at La Defense all week. I was tired, and it was 6:00pm, and of course, the French were striking again. The esplanade was full of busy rushing people frantically trying to reach the metro entrance first, in order to squeeze themselves onto the car like sardines.
Truth be told I may have glanced away from my path, I may have been looking at a market stall, selling the exact bag I had been searching for all week. The one with the multi-coloured sequences... Regardless, next thing you know *SMACK*. I have no idea what has just happened. I feel a sharp pain on the right side of my forehead. Tears are now streaming down my face. I’m swaying to catch my balance. I grab the pavement for some stability. Black dots invade my vision. I hear man above me apologizing in French. Asking if I am alright. I want to say yes, but “Non, pas vraiement”, comes out of my mouth.
As I realize what has just happened ---this man, in the suit, who I saw rushing, out of the corner of my eye just moments ago, has tripped and flown smack into my head. I’ve cushioned his blow---he still seems frantic, and although dazed I realize, that, based on his tone, I have somehow inconvenienced him. It appears my head was in the way. I have just made him more late for whatever pressing engagement he was rushing to. He asks me one more time if I am alright and at the first hint of a nod, he is off. Yep, off! Off and back to the races.
I am left wondering. Should I be thankful that he even stopped and asked if I was alright?
Case #2 to follow...
p.s Am off to Paris again tomorrow for a week. This time I will pay attention for flying French men!
