Leave your pastels at home!

As I received an email from Devon yesterday asking me about footwear for her visit at the end of this month (YAY!), I got to thinking about the need to share where I am right now with my thoughts on life in France as an American. Preparing a friend for a visit to the promised land of Paris is nothing short of daunting. I don’t mean the long flight or the language barrier. In this case, I am referring to attire. In America, anything goes. And, as the capital of fashion, you would think that it would in Paris as well. As the French say with such conviction, "NON!” Although everyone here seems to pull off chic, it is much more effortless than in America---which may be confusing at first. In America, effortless refers to sweats, sneakers, and a pony tail. In France, you must look effortless in order to look French. Your scarf may not be tied “just right.” Your shoes are worn down from lots of wear (as Parisians do not have a pair of shoes to complement each day of the week). Your hair is tousled and usually on its way to being greasy (thanks to the calcium in the water, your hair turns into fortified frizzle). Your black clothes (that you may have already worn all week, ignoring the café crème stain) have a cut to them that is only available in the finest shops in America, but here it is the norm. And, heavy make-up aside, your lips are coated in an alluring shade, so as to offset the frizzle. If only you could purchase this look at Macy’s and put it in your carry-on. But alas, it comes as a result of living in the land of the baguette.

This also sheds some light onto the mystery of the empty streets prior to about 10am. Why get up early to de-tangle your frizz? Additionally, your outfit is already on the floor. It is quite efficient, really. This morning as I was high-tailing it to my spelling bee meeting, there was no one to keep me company along the Seine. In America, it would be teeming with people in their sweats; jogging, walking, or more often than not, enjoying their McMuffin on one of the benches. We operate on a need to get up and seize the day, or we are considered lazy. In Paris, you enjoy the nighttime, you savor the dark. This morning it was just me and my buddy Le Tour Eiffel. Here, you needn’t rise at 6am to get in your morning jog and then throw on your black duds. In Paris, life begins around 10am, which means that if you only brought sweats to Paris (or a rhinestone-studded fanny pack), the time that is most safe for you to not be noticed, are the early hours of the morning. And by the way, if you plan to exercise here in the summer, just be forewarned that there is no deodorant available with anti-perspirant. So, don’t forget to pack your Speed Stick (and stay of the Metro).

And, just in case we thought that maybe it was all in our heads that the French think us to be poorly-attired, overzealous Anglophones, you need to look no further than the American Embassy here in Paris to confirm that. It was one of my American friends who pointed out to me that the street that borders the embassy on one side is named, “Boissy d’ Anglas.” Although it is actually the last name of a French statesman during the Revolution, is looks mighty similar to “bossy English,” which I am sure has no connection to the Anglais-speakers inside the embassy. But, then you have the young adults at Enfant du Monde that would dispute anything of the sort.

As I went in Tuesday for my meeting with the director of Enfant du Monde, I was lingering in the hallway chatting with some of the kiddos, when I saw a young man, wearing an “I ♥ NY” t-shirt come barreling out from the conference room. He heard an American ‘accent’ and wanted to come find its origin. He proceeded to tell me that he thought very fondly of the American soldiers in Afghanistan, so much so, that he taught himself English so that he could communicate with them. As his shirt broadcasted, and he wasted no time in reiterating, he dreams to one day go to America. To him, it is the promised land. It made me stop and reconsider the angst I had toward the American tourists on the Metro the other day, and instead, it reminded me that although I now wear the same pair of shoes everyday, and I love scraping my mop into a barrette so as to look French, that I am an American, and in that, I should be proud. I make no promises about wearing my sweats in public, though.