"Serge sweetly doesn't know how to dance but we go to Regine's, then to a Russian club, and Serge pushes 100-franc notes into the musicians' violins so they will play the "Valse triste" of Sibelius as we get into a taxi; after that we went to an amazing place where Mexican singers Serge knew were playing with Joe Turner, the great jazz man; from there to Madame Arthur, a transvestite club, where Serge's father played the piano before the war. These gentlemen dressed up as ladies, who I had never seen the like of, come and sit on Serge's knee; after that, at dawn, we went to have a croissant on the Pigalle and all the prostitutes said hello to Serge. I just thought, "Wow." He had the keys to the city, or to all of the cities of Paris."
one. Isabel Marant Idea coat in charcoal grey.
two. a cute little note book from my friend as a birthday present. translation: "I am a little bit of a big deal".
three. a trio of fantastic French rom-coms which are better than normal rom-coms because they're French.
four. APC feuille de figuier and toumbac candles.
five and six. a snippet of the Jerome Dreyfuss
seven and eight. bits and pieces from the Rue Des Martyrs address of the Rose Bakery.
nine. Tati Cotliar so frenchy so chic in trench coat and denim in the first issue of Stonefox magazine. photo: Benah Blog
ten. k.jacques red sandals - a birthday gift from my lovely uni friends!
two. a cute little note book from my friend as a birthday present. translation: "I am a little bit of a big deal".
three. a trio of fantastic French rom-coms which are better than normal rom-coms because they're French.
four. APC feuille de figuier and toumbac candles.
five and six. a snippet of the Jerome Dreyfuss
seven and eight. bits and pieces from the Rue Des Martyrs address of the Rose Bakery.
nine. Tati Cotliar so frenchy so chic in trench coat and denim in the first issue of Stonefox magazine. photo: Benah Blog
ten. k.jacques red sandals - a birthday gift from my lovely uni friends!
My mum is renowned in our family and her circle of friends for being an intense francophile - the biggest one there is. She will read any book written about or in Paris, even the weird murder mysteries set in Montmartre, even the horrible chick-lit about British couples opening "auberges" in the South of France. She'll watch any French film and adore it. She can cook anything French with her eyes closed (and we love her for it). For her 50th birthday we went to France to celebrate her in her favourite city in the world, and it was lovely to see it through her eyes. Meals at the restaurants of her choice, visits to her favourite chateaux, sips of her beloved Billecart-Salmon champagne (but not too many sips, mind). It's endearing how much she loves France, simply because. Not because of any over-hyped, rose-tinted, Eiffel-tower filled dream scenarios (she doesn't even like the Eiffel Tower, but, actually, she does really, by sheer virtue of the fact that it is in Paris). But because she thinks France is beautiful. And it is.
My mum and I have completely different perspective when it comes to France. I love the Marais, she prefers Saint Germaine. I love eating at poky little cafes and hipster hangouts, she prefers innovative chefs or traditional french fare (or both, together, like Joel Robuchon). I spend most of my time in Paris on Isabel Marant pilgrimages or rifling through racks at le Bon Marche. She would happily spend her days hunting down knitting or button or cooking shops. But we can converge, hours later, laden with parcels or ebullient and well-fed, worn off our feet from all the walking, to talk about our Paris, our experiences, our discoveries, as if Paris belonged to us alone, and no-one else, and not each other. It's so funny how we can have such very different experiences of the very same city. We do cross over (it was her, after all, that introduced me to the Rose Bakery, much to my delight), but on the whole we can be there at the same time and want to do very different things. She has a Paris all of her own, and so do I (and so does Jane Birkin, and so does Serge Gainsbourg) and they can co-exist harmoniously indefinitely.
That's why it was so nice that last trip to make it all about her. Doing the things she wanted or seeing the things she saw broke up my incessant desire to hunt down a certain boutique or a certain cafe, and it was nice. One of the nicest moments of the last trip was when we sat down together in the shade of the Place des Vosges on our first day in Paris with a great friend of ours and just talked about nothing. There was a hilarious group of French university students filming a mockumentary, with each student dressed up as a different country competing in the Olympics. We had a good chuckle at the Australian delegate, gamely baring skin in some too-short speedos (I believe the Australian terminology is "budgy smugler", no?) and a green and yellow singlet that stubbornly refused to stay put. I had wanted to go to COS that day, but instead ended up sitting on a bench with a box of macarons with my mum and our friend and watching Parisians go about their lives. Her Paris and my Paris collided spectacularly and for one brilliant moment we shared the city that she loves so much.
Because of my mum's great love for France there are always bits and pieces of francophilia littering our house - a block mazet chocolate here, a Julia Child cook book there. My room has started to take on that feeling too, something that I hadn't noticed until recently. Even the quilt I shot these pictures on is by a french bedding company (and mighty chic it is too!). I've always loved Jerome Dreyfuss bags and bemoan the fact that I started working at the store I work at literally days after they stopped stocking Jerome Dreyfuss and I never got the chance to use my staff discount on any of those bad boys. I think the Billy bag in a nice supple khaki leather would do me well. There are worse things in life than having a little bit of Paris in your life, no?
X
ps. anyone else having Paris fever must watch Midnight In Paris. The opening sequence set to Sidney Bechet's si tu vois ma mere alone will be enough to send you off to STA to book a one way ticket.
pps. anyone else having Paris fever and who is just a little bit of a pervert check out this video of the sexiest man alive speaking fluent french. It's all kinds of amazing.
My mum and I have completely different perspective when it comes to France. I love the Marais, she prefers Saint Germaine. I love eating at poky little cafes and hipster hangouts, she prefers innovative chefs or traditional french fare (or both, together, like Joel Robuchon). I spend most of my time in Paris on Isabel Marant pilgrimages or rifling through racks at le Bon Marche. She would happily spend her days hunting down knitting or button or cooking shops. But we can converge, hours later, laden with parcels or ebullient and well-fed, worn off our feet from all the walking, to talk about our Paris, our experiences, our discoveries, as if Paris belonged to us alone, and no-one else, and not each other. It's so funny how we can have such very different experiences of the very same city. We do cross over (it was her, after all, that introduced me to the Rose Bakery, much to my delight), but on the whole we can be there at the same time and want to do very different things. She has a Paris all of her own, and so do I (and so does Jane Birkin, and so does Serge Gainsbourg) and they can co-exist harmoniously indefinitely.
That's why it was so nice that last trip to make it all about her. Doing the things she wanted or seeing the things she saw broke up my incessant desire to hunt down a certain boutique or a certain cafe, and it was nice. One of the nicest moments of the last trip was when we sat down together in the shade of the Place des Vosges on our first day in Paris with a great friend of ours and just talked about nothing. There was a hilarious group of French university students filming a mockumentary, with each student dressed up as a different country competing in the Olympics. We had a good chuckle at the Australian delegate, gamely baring skin in some too-short speedos (I believe the Australian terminology is "budgy smugler", no?) and a green and yellow singlet that stubbornly refused to stay put. I had wanted to go to COS that day, but instead ended up sitting on a bench with a box of macarons with my mum and our friend and watching Parisians go about their lives. Her Paris and my Paris collided spectacularly and for one brilliant moment we shared the city that she loves so much.
Because of my mum's great love for France there are always bits and pieces of francophilia littering our house - a block mazet chocolate here, a Julia Child cook book there. My room has started to take on that feeling too, something that I hadn't noticed until recently. Even the quilt I shot these pictures on is by a french bedding company (and mighty chic it is too!). I've always loved Jerome Dreyfuss bags and bemoan the fact that I started working at the store I work at literally days after they stopped stocking Jerome Dreyfuss and I never got the chance to use my staff discount on any of those bad boys. I think the Billy bag in a nice supple khaki leather would do me well. There are worse things in life than having a little bit of Paris in your life, no?
X
ps. anyone else having Paris fever must watch Midnight In Paris. The opening sequence set to Sidney Bechet's si tu vois ma mere alone will be enough to send you off to STA to book a one way ticket.
pps. anyone else having Paris fever and who is just a little bit of a pervert check out this video of the sexiest man alive speaking fluent french. It's all kinds of amazing.
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