Remember when Carrie was packing for Paris at the end of season 6 and she talk about how some outfits are just dying to be taken to Paris... I have one of those outfits, and I did take it to Paris, and it was marvelous.
The funny thing is that if you put all the photos of me in paris, lined them up side by side at the kitchen table, you would see the tale of not only growing physically, but sartorially. There's me, aged 10 months old in rompers and cardigans, staring with that compelling gaze that only a baby could muster. There's me, 5 years old in bright turquoise leggings, striped and polkadotted here and there with fuschia and orange (hands up if you had a pair of THOSE), purple corduroy pinnafore, stripey turtleneck and shiny black shoes. There's me, 10 and hilariously tomboy with a cropped 'do and overalls, grinning madly whilst wielding a sword (i think this was at a bastille day re-enactment). There's me, 14 and so young, with hair down to the small of my back and an army surplus jacket over a peasant skirt and converse. There's me, 16 and a little more savvy in a swing coat and tea dress. There's me, 18 and loving life in a Josh Goot tye dye skirt swirling around me as I jumped up in front of the eiffel tower, exuding wide-eyed effervescence. I was in Paris! Wow!
How wonderul it was to step off the Eurostar that day and into the streets surrounding the Gare du Nord. I was in Paris... An adult, finally, un-chaperoned and without rules or regulations. I was off to meet a friend and we were about to spend 2 glorious weeks exploring the city with the eyes of the newly legal, downing as much french wine and sampling as many french cocktails as we could. But for now I savoured the moment, you know the one, where you step into a new city and it's like seeing a new world - everything is so bright, so clear, so shiny. You feel excitement from the very tips of your fingers to the tips of your toes. I wanted to see it all! I just wandered for a bit, even though i was supposed to be hopping in a taxi and rendez-vous-ing (how easily french comes when you're in paris, bien sur), grinning madly to myself. I was in Paris, wow!
When i finally met up with my friend we screamed with giddiness for about 20 whole seconds. Then we dumped my bag and ran out onto the street, laughing raucously. We were so close to the eiffel tower that we could see it, peering majestically down at us, from our bedroom window. The first thing we could think of to do was to run over there and take photos in front of it. And, naturally, being private school sydney-siders the first thing we could think of to do in those photos was to pose. Namely, jumping up and down with uncontained glee.
Those photos are such a laugh to look at now. I was wearing this outfit, carefully picked out of course, to try and emulate that effortless french chic with that added pinch of je ne sais quoi. I had this ridiculous scarf on that added no heat at all, it was made of silk chiffon with ruffled ends, but when slung casually around your neck it did make me look awfully french. A simple black shirt, a khaki stella mccartney jacket purchased on sale for 75 quid at harvey nicks barely days before with huge batwing sleeves (i do love me a bit of the batwing sleeve action). And the josh goot skirt. It was so flowy and so gorgeous I couldn't not wear it. It's ease of movement and mesmerising pattern was perfect for Paris. (it was, by the way, about 3 degrees celcius at the time, but who cares for colds when there are outfits such as these!)
As i look at the photo where i am jumping in the air, skirt billowing out around me like a beautiful, dip-dyed cloud, i can't help but smile at the memory of that Paris trip. It was perfect in every way, we spent hardly a cent but we did so many things and forged so many memories, i'll never forget the hours we spent trawling the marais and gossiping in the place des vosges. Or the brunch we had at Alcazar with real french yoghurt and wine tumblers brimming with freshly squeezed orange juice. Or when my friend A got mistaken for a rock star in Dolce Gabbana and we were given the royal treatment (champagne and strawberries) while she tried on a leather jacket she had no intention of purchasing. Or when we got lost in the Louvre and somehow ended up spending 3 hours in the Italian medieval painting and sculpture gallery, tedious, but i did learn an awful lot about woodcutting.
They're all nice, of course. But the one memory i'll always cherish is that of me and her, screaming with excitement at the prospect of 2 whole weeks in Paris. The time stretched out languorously before us and with the world (or, indeed, Paris) as our oyster. We could do anything. And we did. But at that moment it was all imagined dreams. What was real was the Eiffel Tower, sticking out behind us, as we leapt in the air with barely contained joi de vivre.
A bright smile, eager eyes, and a josh goot skirt.
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