Danse avec moi.

Damn it. I had to leave.

Right when the weather started to get warm ..right when school was over and we no longer had to worry about class …right before les soldes rush began …just when I was starting to find myself in French….

….I had to say goodbye.

In those last few weeks I decided to let myself go, embrace life, and stop worrying so much. “My time here is limited” I thought, “why not take a plunge“. And it was then that I finally started to understand the Frenchman.

I realize now that the Frenchman can be quite charming. He is the sensitive sort with curious pensées, soucis, and resolutions that occupy his mind. I must admit — he is rather pale and quite lanky — but his masculinity lies in his gallantry not his machismo. He has a love for beauty in all its forms: music, art, poetry, literature; but his favorite form of beauty is in the form of a woman. She stirs something within him and makes him forget himself. But it’s alright, for it would be a egregious towards God to not to enjoy His creation.

Alas, I am back in The States where the men chug beer and do not sip wine. This is a land where quantity proceeds quality … But how can we enjoy the moment when consumption prevails?

Regardless, flirting is flirting and I am throwing my rule book out the window. I have been taught that it is like a subtle dance…There is no prey, there is no chaser; only two people dancing together.

So come dance with me.


Complexe de taille.

I have a real problem and I need some advice.

This is serious. It’s going to haunt me for the rest of my life if I don’t do something about it. Last night, I went to a fantastic boat party right under Pont Alexandre III. The setting was beautiful and I met a lot of cool people. There was a man there that I’d known briefly from before. We sat and chatted and I realized I really liked him. But when we stood up the devastating truth set in:

He was short.

Okay. This is starting to become a real problem.  You see, we tall people (and our short friends) have a complex…a complex that people of normal height may not understand. At 5’11, I view the world from an entirely different setting. It’s a life experience that can be ostracizing or empowering — depending on what you make of it. Do I feel bad this? No, not at all. But I need a man who sees the world from the same place. In fact, I need a man who I can gaze up at and allow me to feel like a woman.

But if I’m gazing down at him too, the whole dynamic of the relationship is thrown off!!!! How can I feel like a woman if I can’t snuggle in his chest. (Snuggling in my chest is just weird and annoying and creepy. Bleeh)

If you’re a woman, you know how wonderful it is to tilt back your head and kiss a man. The further I can tilt my head, the happier I feel. For a tall woman to nestle in the arms of a tall man is like curling up in a comfy bed after a long hard day. (For him too! No bending down! She’s just right there with you.)

Unfortunately men who are 6’4 are — well — a gift from God, especially in Paris. They usually know it and can get any girl they want. They don’t even have to try, women gravitate! In normal people world, a nice guy who is 5’8 is quite alright. But for me, it’s quite a lot to ask. I have to shut off a part of my soul, really it’s a ridiculous complex.

But then again, I really do like him….

“I, with a deeper instinct, choose a man who compels my strength, who makes enormous demands on me, who does not doubt my courage or my toughness, who does not believe me naïve or innocent, who has the courage to treat me like a woman.”
Anaïs Nin

c’est un club de striptease, Madame

Last night was girl’s night out.

My friends and I arrived too early to favorite club of mine (00h30 est trop tôt??? come on!), so we decided to visit the swanky club next door. Besides the 5 bouncers standing outside and the flashing neon pink lights, the place was pretty discreet and when I asked the grosse mec what it was he whispered to me “c’est un club de striptease, Madame“. So we entered.

The place was pretty sultry — with  sexy couches, dim lights, loud music, and beautiful topless people I felt like I was back at Abercrombie and Fitch.

What was really impressive were the women. Their bodies were fantastic! Normally when I think of strippers, I think of fat chicks off of Hollywood and Western with cellulite and stretch marks dancing naked in front of you (blehhh). But no, these women were hot. “Why are they doing this” I wondered, “Perhaps they are just trying to work their way through school…or perhaps they have a son to feed“. But those thoughts didn’t occupy my mind long. We were too busy taking notes.

Nobody looked at us; each person in the audience was too captivated by the naked amazon on stage. Was she powerful or degrading? Did you want her or hate her? No one knew. But to take your eyes off of center stage and acknowledge the real world around you would ruin the effect and bring you back to reality. This was not reality, this was a fucking illusion.

We left before the hour was over and soon forgot about sexy, broken women with fantastic fake breasts.  At the club, (some using the notes we learned at the club before) each of us ladies went home with someone fantastic.

But that’s another story.

The other day I had the pleasure of running into my high school crush.

It had been a year since I’d seen him and the moment we locked eyes my heart immediately stopped like it used to.

You know your high school crush. He’s the mec who gives you butterflies whenever he comes around and regardless of your age makes you stutter like you’re 14 years old. And now mine was here…

I thought I’d grown up. I thought I knew how to handle myself with men I liked. But instinctively I reverted to my school girl ways……I got up and left the room as fast as I could….

“Why did you run away like that when I saw you?” he asked when I saw him later.

I played it cool.

“I had a final…” It’s true! I’d had an exam that I had been 20 minutes early for….

“You didn’t even have a minute to say hello?”

“Well, I’m here now.” I said and smiled.

He looked at me like he used to and my heart fell into my stomach. It had nothing to do with him anymore, he was the same old cute boy…it was the sentiment that I just could not handle.

“Well I probably should be going.”

Very quickly I kissed everyone goodbye and left. I’m sure he was annoyed. I was annoyed!

It’s a shame really. Only a few boys in life can ever make a girl feel that way. And I just couldn’t handle it.

But there are just some people you cannot trust yourself to trust.

Choc culturel.

We all come from our own worlds.

Whether we are an heiress living in London or a rapper selling your CDs on Crenshaw, we construct our lives based on how we see ourselves and the people around us. And as such, we gravitate toward those who validate our reality. Of course, most people don’t consciously realize this…

for there is no need when surrounded by people who are like you.

Over these past two years, I’ve been perplexed by the number of unstable relationships that just do not fit me. The French women I meet are either elusive and unapproachable or just a flat out bitchy. The French men usually never pursue anything beyond innocent flirtation or a one night stand. Perhaps I am just too tall and intimidating. I tell myself innocently. Or perhaps they just like drama.

And then you get the Lame-os: the dudes who so hopelessly just don’t make the cut. They usually are uneducated and/or have absolutely no money and/or no respectable aspirations and/or are too short. I don’t want a boyfriend who sells cars and never went to college, they make me want to yell. And yet those are the ones I get to choose from here.

Sure, I gave it a shot once or twice: the short guy, the penniless guy, the “uneducated car sales man” guy. I’m not a shallow girl who judges people simply on height and wealth, if he can make a girl laugh then he’s worth a shot. But each one left me unconvinced that we truly understood each other. We disagreed on very basic principals. Ultimately we came from different worlds.

But then I realized something.

I felt it with cute Frenchman too, as well as the sexy Spaniard, the hot Italian, etc etc etc. In fact, it applies to my entire life in Paris in general. This is not my world.

I’m done with this.

I’m going back to my roots and my people.

I’m headed for Atlanta.

Chapitre 1: Coucher ensamble sans coucher ensamble

I remember my first real boy/girl sleep over.

I arrived in my pajamas thinking we’d play a game of sexy twister before cuddling up in front of a movie with popcorn. “We’ll flirt and giggle till dawn” I thought “and I’ll wake up entangled in a cute boy’s arms.”

Turns out sexy twister wasn’t the only thing on his mind that night…

Somehow this pattern continued to haunt me in college and eventually turned into a real problem.

I failed to realize that lying in a man’s bed at night sends a certain message…..

The following is a list of rules I wish I could have sent myself 2 years ago. My French friends tell me to relax and just go with the flow of things, but quite honestly I feel that this particular matter needs to be handled with pragmatic discretion. There is nothing worse then regretted sex. Nothing. If you are like me, then perhaps now you can avoid some sticky situations.

1. To begin, sleeping in bed together does not automatically denote sleeping together. And any mec who doesn’t respect that is immature.

2. ….that is unless it’s because he picked you up from a club or bar. Then the signal was clear…

3. In the heat of the moment, chances are you won’t be thinking clearly so it’s best to decide exactly what you want before so if you do sleep together, at least you will know that you made that decision yourself.

4. However if you do not want to baiser, it’s only fair to be honest from the beginning. Tactfully of course (Immediately after the kisses start to get hot — but don’t wait too long).

5. ATTENTION: once les culottes are gone all bets are off. In fact it’s best to just keep your tights on.

6. Be wary of the morning after!!!! Seriously. You think you have successfully secured a safe sexy sleep over, think again. The morning is actually the most dangerous time because you are hazy and drunk with assurance!

7. It is important to consider if you’ve been manipulated into this situation. Are you drunk? Did you randomly show up at his front door by Moped? Then it’s best to be going.

8. Don’t push it. Seriously, a man can only handle so much torture.

Bottom line, it’s just best to be honest…especially if it’s the first night. As long as everyone is on the same page, a little fun won’t hurt


La soiree sporadique.

There is a phenomenon in Paris that I’d like to share with you.

Every so often,  when the weather is warm and the moon is full,  7 or 8 French strangers gather — preferably along the Seine or at a someone’s house. At first it is awkward, as no one knows each other and there is usually no purpose for this gathering. And then slowly individuals divide amongst themselves to politely exchange interests, occupations, current events, and culture (over wine).

In a timely fashion the harder alcohol is introduced and something strange occurs: yelling, laughing, singing, taking silly pictures and exchanging stupid remarks. The boundaries dissolve and finally the Parisian man is allowed to express the loneliness he feels. And at last, there is no need for la parisienne to be a self-involved bitch. With her new found friends she can sing in the streets, ascend underground to disrupt the metro, laugh obnoxiously, stumble into a random apartment, disrobe herself during sexy drinking games, and embrace a woman she would otherwise despise.

More hard alcohol. Loud music. Dancing. Un homme.

black out.

“My heart is yearning but Paris is burning, Paris is burning all night long.

My heart is dreaming but Paris is screaming, Paris is screaming all night long…”

Ellen von Unwerth au Bon Marche

If you’re a metro commuter like me (who isn’t?), you’ve probably noticed these rather captivating ads featuring Vincent Cassel and Monica Bellucc. Starting tomorrow, Ellen von Unwerth is featured within the gallery of the Bon Marché. The collection is entitled “Ellen’ Cinema” and includes sources of her inspiration as well as shots of her backstage shooting style. How fantastic!

Here are some of my Von Unwerth favorites!!!

This old lady knows good sex…