I’m sorry. I just haven’t been able to bring myself to talk about Paris. The experience was so overwhelming. Each time I’ve come to write, I’ve been at a loss of words. That is what Paris does to a young … Continue reading

La vie nocturne à Paris.

Rules for getting wasted in Paris.

  1. Pre-game with a bottle of wine – Drinks at a nightclub can be from 15-20 euros a pop, which can tally up to quite a bill. Pre-gaming will loosen everyone up for the long, cold metro ride to Franklin D. Roosevelt, Palais Royal Musée du Louvre, or wherever you choose to party. (Plus your heals won’t hurt so bad).
  2. Check in your coat – Even if you have a table, don’t leave your coat laying around, especially if you’re keys and wallet are in your pocket.
  3. Set aside cab money – While the ideal night includes going home when the metro opens, it’s best to set aside some cab money just incase someone gets too drunk, the club is awful, or your just too tired.
  4. Don’t accept drinks from men – When a man buys you a drink, you’re stuck with him for the night. Remember to only accept the drink you poured yourself.
  5. Stick with your girlfriends – The night ends up so much better (and safer) if you’ve brought your best friends.
  6. End the night on stage with the band– that is you’re ultimate goal. Begin by slipping into the VIP lounge if you don’t already have a table. Dance on the couches, eventually the party on stage will let you on.

The best nights at dawn when the metro opens after dancing all night on stage. Let loose and have fun, it’s Paris.

10 jours jusqu’à Paris.

Returning to Paris is like being flung by the legs into another universe….

…you’re never quite sure how you’re going to land.

Nothing is ever certain — not your finances, your friends, or the place that you will stay. The weather is unpredictable, the exchange rate mght be down, the Parisians will probably be moody and irrational. When traveling to Paris, you must remember that love is like oxygen… without it you will suffocate. So be sure to bring enough with you or find some when you get there…

And then there are all the Don’ts you must remember…

Don’t wear shorts or bright colors even on a sunny day. Don’t walk around smiling like an idiot. Don’t eat croissants on the metro. Don’t hand the woman at the bakery your change. Don’t step in dog poop. Don’t refuse the revered smelly cheese. Don’t pour wine for a gentleman. Don’t expect French people to show up on time. Don’t go out before midnight. Don’t dance like a stripper at the night club. Don’t go home with the cute boy on the moped.

(All these, of course, I have done….

…and will probably do again)



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.

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…

Alors on Danse.

This week Stromae topped the French Top-40 charts with his new song Alors on Danse. This Belgian-Rwandan songwriter distinguishes himself in both hip-hop and electronic music.

I think I’ve found my future French Belgian husband : )

Une révélation divine.

Perhaps it’s time to soften my heart and reconsider the Frenchman.

Indeed his amusement is fleeting, his thoughts are quite simple — but I see now that the Frenchman is different then the American. The Frenchman cooks, he cleans, he dresses well; he discusses his feelings and insights about life. Though he appears imperious and proud, his heart is, indeed, quite delicate and he does not want to be hurt. And he does not mean to distress, but he cannot help his respect for beauty and passing curiosity. There is a psychology here that I’m finally beginning to understand:

In France, there is more respect for grace and charm. Things are executed with subtly and tact.

Before, with my brazen outbursts and tempestuous cries, I could not hear the gentle melody Paris plays.

“The Frenchman, by nature, is sensuous and sensitive. He has intelligence, which makes him tired of life sooner than other kinds of men. He is not athletic: he sees the futility of the pursuit of fame; the climate at times depresses him.”

-Anais Nin