- For the passionate only -

Once in a full moon you meet the kind of people you aren't supposed to meet in real life, they only exist in movies. I am talking about the kind of people who seem to good to be true, you have always imagined about meeting someone like it, but it never occurred that maybe one day you will...

About 200 meters from my front door, is a tiny vintage store with a peculiar name. A name that I shall not mention, for this vintage store is my secret Parisian address. I shall only share it with those who can appreciate the true greatness this treasure beholds.

It surely is no secret that Paris houses the most jaw dropping vintage stores in the universe. But ever since SJP started parading her vintage wardrobe on 5th avenue in SATC, lovers and wanna be's have turned into must haves and must haves have turned into commercial jokes. People who don't know what they are buying, are buying it. Today, it has become challenging to distinguish the passionate vintage lover from those who just buy it because it's a cool thing to do.

So therefore, my secret vintage address that I cherish with my whole heart shall remain mine forever.

Each time I walk through the mustard yellow painted door, I hear nothing, not even a sound on the streets of Paris, just the beat of my own heart. I am digging for gold and there is nobody who can stop me now!

The first time it was Chanel, the second Alaïa, the third Dior...All impeccable vintage, guarded by a knowledgeable woman, I like to call Misses N.

She is the real deal. She will tell you your size the second you enter her goldmine, will scan your likes and dislikes and give you a tour around her to the nook filled store, grabbing every item that will suit your taste, figure and size. She will then inform you about the garment with exact detail about when it was shown on the runway, by who it was designed and how much it really is worth.

For my first introduction, she sends me off to the dressing room with a Hermès silk blouse, DVF jersey wrap dress, wool Chanel top and Comme des Garçons wool suit. Although I wanted to buy every single item, I kept my cool and was yet to discover the biggest treasure that houses in her pillbox store.

It was hidden in an old glass closet underneath Chanel and Hermès jewels. It wasn't with the other clothes, not hanging on the rack with the other items neatly organized by color. It was there, where nobody shall find it or pay attention. I recognized it from gazing at it for too many times in fashion history books. The colors were still flawless and it was just like I had imagined it would be.

I look at her in disbelief - Can I see it? Can I try it on?...
She laughs - Sure

I fall on my knees. She opens the closet, I take it out, fold it open and cannot believe my eyes! I touch it, feel it, try it on, and can't believe what I am seeing, it fits (off course).

All of a sudden I feel like the fashion police is just behind my back to rip off this piece of perfection from my body - for this should not be hidden in a vintage store, but belong to a museum or at least Rachel Zoe's vintage collection. I take it off, feel it, touch it, fold it and put it back where I found it.

Ever since that moment... I have dreamed about it, hungered for it and wondered about it...I now find my self repeating the same question every time I enter the mustard yellow painted door.

Is IT still here? (At this moment my heart leaps and I feel nauseas)

But for now her answer has always been YES, YES IT is still here. Waiting for you to buy, it is still hidden underneath the jewels - don't worry nobody will find it.

But what if someone will? I dread the day that she will say, I sold it - I have sold the Wool jersey YSL Mondrian top from the 1965 autumn Haute Couture collection.

Nightmare come true!

But than I remember, I shall not fear...
Once in a full moon you meet the kind of people you aren't supposed to meet in real life, they only exist in movies. And her name is Misses N. , she only sells to the passionate and hides treasures for the perfect owner to find...

California girl

The sun may rise in the East, at least it settles in the final location...California.

I was 12, the first time I got introduced to the Bling Bling west coast of the United States of America. A place where the sunshine sparkles in the blue ocean all year 'round. It was magical and I found myself in a whole new state of mind.

From then on I was lucky enough to go back EVERY summer!

The things I remember best...

Waking up early in the morning to the smell of the rising sun. Driving in a mini-van filled with surfboards and friends to go up to the beach, where the girls would watch the boys suck at surfing. Afternoons filled with sunbathing, shopping and checking out the cute guys at Abercrombie. And evenings would consist of going out to the movies or eating smores by a campfire on the beach. I felt like a kid in a candy store, I wore flip flops to restaurants and a pink hat that matched my bubblegum lipstick.

My best memory...

Cruising down the 101 in a blue pick-up truck with my bare feet out the window while enjoying the sound of the Red Hot Chillipeppers 'Californication'. Living in the moment is what I did every day.

Back home I was bombarded Miss USA during my high school & college years since I picked up on a heavy American accent and an over the top dressing style that didn't refer to my European roots.

Now I sometimes wake up in the morning and recognize that smell of California. An intense scent you can only witness on a sunny morning when nature is getting ready for that big ball of radiation. That smell takes me right back to the golden coast. I wish I could capture it in a bottle, only used in desperate moments, when I need a shot of energy and instant gratification.

Ready...Set...Action

- From Paris with love -

Woody Allen recently explained why his new blockbuster movie 'Midnight in Paris' was shot in the French capital. "Everybody in the US is brought up to love Paris; people love the city even before they ever set foot in it".  

Paris, the city of lights and endless romance has been the set for numerous movies. So many that you could almost say that the city has no secrets anymore. Every street corner, every avenue, every building, every bridge is unique and beautiful and has surely been the center of attention in a movie. It is therefore not unusual to once in a while bump into cameras on the streets. The city changes into a Hollywood movie set. Like two months ago when on a sunny Sunday morning my Montmartre metro station was covered with white fake snow carpets. Or last year when a well kept yellow old timer blocked the afternoon traffic in st germain des pres. And there are the occasional screaming paparazzi waiting outside of the glittery hotel Costes for a celebrity to finish their lunch or cocktails. I can only confirm that Paris is the absolute perfect backdrop for any given movie, the city changes character when entering another arrondissement or going from the left onto the right bank.

I love the way a movie can take you to exotic and exciting places that you have never been before and give you an instant motivation to go there. Who doesn't want to go to NYC after their first introduction to Carrie Bradshaw, while feeling the excitement and restlessness of the big apple bubbling of the screen? Or Beverly Hills on a Pretty woman shopping spree with mister perfect his credit card?  

 

And then there is the wonder of old Hollywood movies, from a decade when the movie set women were dressed in elegant and glamorous designs by the likes of Edith Head and Ceil Chapman.

When I have a hot date with my city, I know I am in for a treat when going to one of the small old-school movie theaters in the quartier Latin, where the seats are still covered in authentic red velvet and silk fabric is drapped above the movie screens. All the starlets from the Hollywood golden years come back to life on a daily basis and take you to another decade when women still dressed like women in sophisticated ensembles with matching hats and gloves. And we must surely not forget about the exquisite sequenced evening gowns in which they seduced their male antagonists.

Before coming to Paris, the only black and white movie I had ever seen was breakfast at Tiffany's. But living in a city as Paris, where nostalgia is embraced with open arms, I have evolved to loving everything old. From flea markets to vintage clothes, and from crooners music to black & white movies.

Some people say that nostalgia is for those whom are not happy in their current life, in part because they think their life would have been better when living in another era. I don't really see it that way. What is so wrong with enjoying and dreaming away with an old Hollywood classic, when real glamour was still alive?

Juggling with words

- The French woman in me -

My boyfriend and I live in a tiny Parisian apartment filled with books, high up into the little nooks of our ceilings. They aren't mine; they belong to him who has read them all. My humble collection still houses at my parents place, since all of our walls are already filled. Most of his novels are written by authors I have never heard off and have trouble with the pronunciation of their last names. I love the smell that the books bring to our home, it reminds me of going to the local library when I was young. Recently we have taken on the challenge of putting the entire collection in alphabetical order. The authentic wooden floors of our midget apartment were filled with books during a 2 day period while we struggled with the pages and pages filled with words and letters.

The French have a very rich literary heritage, and they carry around a book all day the same way they carry around their wallet. They read everywhere and anywhere, on the metro, in the street, on the toilet. Everybody has a wide knowledge off the written word and take it as a necessity to have read all the French literary classics. Unfortunately I stand in great contrast to that vision, I read fashion magazines from cover to cover and weep with Danielle Steel novels and books by the name of Bergdorf Blondes and Last night at Chateau Marmont. The French are great with words, and I guess their reading culture has got something to do with it.

My boyfriend too, he is great with words, French words that are. To me he is a great master of the French language and I often have a hard time following his opinions and thoughts. I have to admit that I sometimes nod even though I didn't understand a single word of what he was saying. My knowledge of the French language has evolved and I can carry on a conversation, but sometimes it just goes to fast for me and the cultural difference gets to prominent. Jokes for that matter are a great example. Cracking jokes in a language other than your mother tongue seems so unnatural and when people start laughing at the table and you are the only silent person there, your senses tell you that you have just missed out on a joke. Getting angry is worse, in the mist of your boiling point; it is extremely hard to come up with the right words to say at the moment you should say them. They always seem to dawn on me to late, when my angriness has been blown off by steam trough my ears.

 I always feel like a different person in a different language. And although 99% of what you say isn’t coming out of your mouth, I cannot help but feel inadequate when I don't seem to come up with the right words to say. Reading should help, but I have a hard time keeping concentrated on French books. The spoken and written language are so different from one another that I feel lost when I enter chapter 2 of any French written novel. I don't seem to have that struggle when entering the entertainment of an English written book. The language comes more natural to me and I seem to wander through English novels with the same ease as wandering through a department store while shopping for shoes.

But, throughout the years and while living abroad, I have come to embrace the woman I am in French, English and Flemish, hoping that my true self shines through regardless of the words that come out of my mouth.

Men and the city

- Flirting for dummies -

It's not a myth nor is it an absolute fact that is applicable to all the French. But I come to really think that French women do honestly life by two lipsticks and a lover. And French men have a mistress on the side for which they don't apologize.

Take Sarkozy for example, in the middle of his elections everybody was talking about him leaving his wife for a younger substitute, a bimbo. He didn't apologize, nor was there ever an explanation of his new/old marital status. BUT as for the Monica Lewinsky/Bill Clinton drama, apologies and explanations for their sexual behavior were the only thing that came out of Clinton's mouth. The president of the united states of America, making an official announcement to the world that something  happened down under, and it didn't involve his wife. Talking about too much information.

 Not a very French thing to do if you ask me, because the French obviously don't kiss and tell. They are secretive and take it as a very serious patriarchal heritage not to talk about these kinds of subjects. Marriage is sacred and so is the mistress. I laugh my heart out when Alec Baldwin says to Meryl Streep in 'it's complicated' that he thinks it's a very 'French thing' to do - having an affair with his ex-wife.

And is it a French thing to do? Having another lover, an affair, a wild ride outside of the castles walls?

Books and books have been written about the French flirting attitude. In France, the woman are in on it too, seduction is part of their everyday life. They enjoy the occasional scene out of their own bedroom and know their place when it comes to 'being the other woman'. Meaning, having no problems with the fact that their lover is happily married to his wife and will not be leaving her under any circumstances.

Historically, the French have always been ahead of any other nationality in terms of underwear. And even today, the French women spend thousands and thousands euros on their lingerie. It's fundamental for them, it's the first thing they put on and so it determines their whole mood... I now understand why, it's all about seduction. Perfume is also part of it. As a hint of perfume should be applied wherever one wants to be kissed according to Coco Chanel. 

I guess starting 'an affair' in the capital that screams romance isn't so hard. It is therefore that it has dawn to me that French men find it very easy and inviting to come up to a strange woman, whom they have never met, in the middle of the street and ask her out for coffee. Sometimes they invite you to have a cigarette with them, even though there is no indication off your smoking habits or non-existing smoking habits for that matter. They ask you where you are from and if you need any directions. But most of all they stroll out numbers of catchy phrases like, 'bonjour miss France' just to attract your attention. It seems to come so natural to them, the whole flirting in the streets thing.

And although I have come to notice and embrace some of the specific treats to the French and Parisian species, I do feel that I still have a long way to go to get it all. Men chatting me up in the street doesn't really do it for me. I guess it must be a southern thing, being a girl from the north I must have a natural immunity against it. Because really, 'wanna have a smoke with me outside', what's that for a one-liner?

Never out of style

- The Madame Grès exhibition -

In today’s world, we are able to see and know everything about what goes on in the fashion business. The behind the scenes of fashion shows, fashion shoots and the making of a collection have no more secrets to the wide public. We can even buy off the runway pieces in a matter of minutes. With Burberry’s live-streaming catwalk, a new hot trench is only a click away.  

And although today’s fashion is there for everyone to reach, fashion history stills houses its little secret treasures… and Madame Grès is one of them.  

Madame Grès was born Germaine Emilie Krebs in 1903. Formally trained as a sculptress, but unable to excel in her profession (as it was an unsuitable job  for a lady), she devoted herself to a career as a couturier. She opened her own fashion house in 1942 which she ran until 1988.

Inspired by classical Greek gowns, she sculpted fabrics around the feminine body. She was faremost known for creating simple but technical complex evening dresses, producing the most exquisite gowns for an array of elegant and fashionable ladies like the Duchess of Windsor, Jacqueline Kennedy , Greta Garbo and Marlene Dietrich.  

“I wanted to be a sculptor. For me, it’s the same thing to work the fabric or the stone”

Her work, was admired by her designer colleagues , such as Givenchy, to whom she was a genius. YSL and Pierre Bergé’s foundation still houses the biggest Madame Grès collection in the world.

The simplexity in which yarns and yarns of silk jersey are draped an pleated is breathtaking. It feels like walking into Rachel Zoe's showroom just before the Oscars. Every Grès dress, every fabric panel is red carpet proofed. None of the designs look plain nor ordinary. Any given actress would be guaranteed to win a place on the best dressed list when wearing a Grès creation .

I cannot help but wonder which movie starlet will be wearing a vintage Madame Grès to the next big Hollywood event.  



From the 25th of March until the 24th of July
Musee Bourdelle
16, rue Antoine Bourdelle, 75015 Paris



The horror of taking a taxi in Paris

- Spotted: Big hummer with famous fashion designer in passengers seat -

Transportation in the big city is definitely important, having a car in Paris is considered a luxury as well as a pain in the ***. I guess an explanation is in order here:  when you take your car out, you will bump into a traffic jam and just when you arrive at your destination you will realize that even after an 1 hour search, you will not be finding a parking stop. The only spots that are available are the one’s that say 'livraison' - I think they should better call it the  'don't park your car here, you will be town away within 15 minutes' - zone. So as much for a car in Paris - NO thank you - been there done that. Most Parisians don't own a car ( I don't blame them) and if they do, it is very possible it is as big as a shoebox. I guess there always is the scooter, but since I am a skirt and big hair kinda gal, a pink vespa is not my cup of tea.

My point is that public transportation in Paris is kind of a big deal. You basically rely on the metro and the bus, taxi's don't count because when you are looking for one, you will most definitely not find one and if you do, the taxi-driver will ask where you are going and if that isn't the area where he planned on going, well, you are basically screwed.

SO, just when I have clocked out my Wednesday night visit to the bar until 11.30 PM, because that's when I am sure that I will still be able to take the metro home. I realized that the metro had decided to call it a night at 11.25 PM and bail on me. Platform pumps don't really help in these kind of situations.

Walking down rue de rivoli, keeping an eye on every taxi that passes by, even doing the 'I show my leg, please stop' trick à la Sarah Jessica Parker, I realized that home was still very far away. The only thing left for me to do was to find the nearest taxi-stop and wait in line just like my co-Parisians and the occasional tourist.

The cue is endless and the stakes are high as I stand there with blisters on my feet and an urgent need to crawl into bed, wishing I was living in New York where I could most surely find a  free taxi on the corner of any given street at any given hour.

And just when I thought the wait was going to feel like forever, I see a big hummer passing by...with Karl Lagerfeld in the passengers seat...his surprise passing by just made the wait a little bit more bearable. Thanks Uncle Karl, you just have made my evening!