wanderlust: paris, je t'aime

I missed the shot. It’s been seven years since we went to Paris, but the image is still seared into my brain.

There we were, standing on the famed Boulevard Saint-Germain. The day was winding down and the street was just beginning to bustle with the energy of commuters weaving through the streets to make their way home. Friends clustered on sidewalk cafes, scarves artfully wrapped, lips primed and puckered for the double air-kiss greeting, and cheek bones accentuated by the long, deep drags of their cigarettes.

As we prepared to brave the busy intersection en route to Café de Flore, I saw her. She had a Vidal Sassoon-style bob. Smooth, glossy, perfectly coiffed despite her hurried pace and the slight breeze gently blowing through her hair. She wore a crisp navy blazer, perfectly tailored, with a striped boatneck tee peeking out from underneath. Skinny dark jeans, shiny black flats and a simple red scarf tied elegantly around her neck perfected the look. A cognac leather backpack adorned one shoulder, brass buckles gleaming in the sunlight and the flap shifted over to make room for a single, slender baguette sticking out of the top.

I hastily reached for my camera and fumbled over purse straps and lens caps. I quickened my pace to catch up to my muse. But as soon as the light changed to green, she was off. She walked briskly, confidently toward a balmy tree-lined side street, and by the time the viewfinder made contact with my eye, she was gone. 

What was it about that image that I needed to capture? That I simply can’t forget all these years later? Sure she was attractive, but far from gorgeous. There was an undeniable elegance and effortlessness to her style. But that wasn’t even it…

It was the baguette. Totally jarring, unexpected. A big, fat middle finger pointing directly at our grab ‘n’ go, convenience-driven culture. In contrast to the sad loaf of hard but healthy sprouted grain Ezekiel bread in my fridge, this was a delectable surprise that offered a glimpse into Parisian life. Was this her routine? A post-work ritual, stopping in a favorite boulangerie to pick up her daily bread? Or was she planning a romantic picnic at the Luxembourg Gardens, racing to meet her lover with a wedge of Camembert and bottle of Beaujolais tucked away at the bottom of her knapsack? Or perhaps she was trying a new bouillabaisse recipe and hence needed a thirsty baguette to soak up all the flavors of the sea?

I have no idea. But the image gave me permission to dream. About her life. And mine. To contemplate what I wanted to take from this magical place, to savor and eventually bring home.

I missed the shot…well my camera did. But the image is still with me, along with countless others that shaped a tapestry of life as it should be lived.

The French call it “joie de vivre.” It’s not just about the beauty, but the ethos of the people and the place. The art of living: dressing without self-consciousness, eating without guilt, making time to laugh with friends in cafés, singing on street corners, or simply sitting in quiet contemplation.

Seven years later, I am reminded. We don't have to be in Paris to live like this... 

vive la difference

back when bush (aka “g-dubya”) was in office, the term “freedom fries” was introduced to spread pro-american propaganda to the masses and demonstrate a symbolic united front against france, who at the time strongly opposed the UN invasion of iraq. on many levels, i found this notion to be utterly absurd.

politics aside, the overall sentiment that nothing good can come from other countries or divergent points was ridiculous. i for one believe that inspiration, innovation, insight can come from anywhere. we are better when our perspectives are broader. when we learn as often, if not more, than we teach.

so who better to teach us a thing or two about fashion than the french.

for our 5th anniversary, my husband and i took a trip to paris and fell in love with this glorious city. a simple walk down any street can lead to an amazing meal or a jazz band playing on a bridge or a live fashion shoot in progress (as pictured above). it is infinitely glamorous and for countless reasons: the art, the culture, the cuisine, the markets, the cafes, the croissants, we were blown away by what i consider to be one of the greatest cities on earth.

but one of the things that struck me most of all was not the couture windows of chanel, YSL, lanvin and dior on the rue saint-honore’, paris’ most fashionable street. though they were gorgeous, living in a city like chicago with access to nyc and la, made them not entirely unique.

rather, it was the style of everyday people that truly made an impression on me. the bourgeoisie. there were a few stunningly gorgeous people that crossed our paths, but most were not. they were a mix of ethnicities: anglo, middle eastern, some asian. many chain smoked themselves into weathered complexions. some were skinny, some were not. some were polished. some were grunge. but no matter what their profile, young or old, the parisians were, in a word, chic.

it wasn’t about expensive designer duds or spell-binding good looks. it was about confidence. unapologetic self-expression. no body issues. no fretting about what people will think. no “can’t wear white past labor day” arbitrary rules. no wishy washy, off-the-rack ensemble dictated by someone else. in paris, you don’t just put on clothes. you accessorize. you mix. you match. you put it together and make it your own.

sure basic black was the flavor du jour, but all you had to do was scan the booths in the neighborhood brasserie to see 50 different interpretations of  the look. sleek black turtleneck and pencil skirt with slick-backed pony and bug-eye dior shades. loose blond chignon with crisp tailored blouse and high-waisted jeans. an old grandma in a simple dress but the most impeccably tied scarf draped around her neck. twenty-something dude with a caeser cut, ray bans and retro sneakers. uber-crisp businessman with a bright paisley pocket square peeking out of his bespoke suit.

my brother and i have a saying that often gets bandied about in conversation. “dress for success.” half-joke, half-truth, it is a philosophy. are we materialistic, superficial freaks? maybe. but there actually is a deeper meaning. it’s not about pricey pieces and expensive indulgences. it’s about looking your best so you can feel your best. forget about the peanut gallery. buy what you like. wear what you want. define your style. and own it.