Fashion Fever

I may not have the greatest fashion sense in the world, but I do pride myself slightly on having a good "eye" for fashion.  Of course this eye of mine may be slightly different from the Hubert de Givenchy's of this world, but I'm willing to give myself credit for appreciating nice clothing.  And no, that doesn't include Bubble coats.  I have seen far too many of them surfacing in recent weeks and I want to tell you, I'm not a fan. 

H&M models.  I will never look as good as them: FACT.

I decided to go on what one might call a "shopping spree" this Saturday, starting off in the very familiar H&M.  Saturday, it seems, is the worst possible day to go shopping in France.  Frankly, I will never do it again.  I'd already endured the wrath of supermarket shopping on a Saturday and I believe this topped it.  There were so many people raiding the clothing rails, hogging the mirrors (which were 1) slimming, 2) dark).  It was like staring at a significantly altered representation of yourself through a pair of sunglasses.  As much as losing a few pounds and gaining a suntan in a mirror can make your shopping experience more endurable, I was not fooled.

To add to this, the winter collection was pants (as in rubbish, not the American equivalent to trousers!)  Truly unimpressive.   The shop was about 80% coats.  I already have a coat.  Who needs more than one coat anyway?  Unless you're Kate Middleton of course, who is technically not allowed to wear the same coat more than once without the headlines reading "Kate hit badly by recession too".  Never mind wearing the same coat two days on the trot.

And don't even get me started on the queue for the fitting room.  I was tempted to just go al fresco and create a makeshift dressing room in a corner of the shop and use one of the many coat rails to protect my dignity.  Yet despite the infuriatingly long queue which appeared to snake round the shop, I decided I was going to try my patience and wade it out for the long haul.  As I got closer to the entrance, the person manning the dressing room came up to me and pretty much man-handled me.  After counting how many items of clothing I had as if I were a coat stand, he proceeded to pick up my coat which was draped on my other arm and shake it about a bit before he ruffled my hair with his eyes to check that I wasn't obscuring a pair of pumps in my voluminous hair.  I mean, seriously.  You'd have thought I were a terrorist or something with the amount of frisking that went one.

My complaints about the clothing?  1) The sizes are different from the UK.  A UK size 10 is a European size 38.  But still, the clothes were too big.  In H&M in the UK all the clothes come up really small (either to make me feel fat, or because 12 year old girls are increasingly frequenting the store), so I was completely surprised when trying on an equivalent size 10 in Europe to see that all the clothes were hanging off me.  As much as I'd love to say I've lost weight, I think all the bread and cheese I've been consuming over recent months would make that nay impossible.  I just put that down to a lack of consistency with sizing.

2) All the dresses were so long.  Like mid-calf bashers.  I don't think any of the dresses I tried on were above the knee.  As an Essex girl, I don't quite understand the concept of anything which doesn't cut at least 5 inches above the knee.  Not because I've got killers pins or anything (I wish), but because Essex girls live by the motto "less is more".  Especially when it's covered in fake tan and cellulite.  I'd just like to point out that I'm not a real Essex girl and none of these gross representations apply to yours truly.  At least, I try to cover up any offending cellulite with a dress that actually covers my booty.  But why all the long dresses?   Either I'm incredibly small at 5'4" or the French live by the motto "more is more".  Or perhaps it's because everyone here wears high-heels, whether it's for work, shopping or going out.  Although I should clarify that these "high" heels are more like kitten-heels rather than great white stomping stillettos which Essex girls use to cripple their boyfriends when they get out the wrong side of bed in the morning.

I've also noticed this annoying obsession with purchasing clothing which is obviously about 3 sizes too small.  As much as ill-fitting, skin-clawing tops are so hot right now, don't flatter yourself with thinking you're a size 6, just because the seam doesn't split.  Was it really all that necessary to sew yourself into that dress, Olivia Newton John style?  Don't forget that the poor woman couldn't pee for 48 hours during filming for Grease.  Is it really worth all the strain on your poor bladder?  No, just accept you're not as tiny as you were when you were 13 years old, and choose clothing which doesn't cut off your blood circulation.  *Rant over*

So, that was the completion of unsuccessful day no.1 shopping in Paris.  Oh, I just wish I could afford Armani right now.

Watch this space.

Montana

Smouldering Sushi

So I've been stuck in a trance all my life, a self-confessed Sushifile (lover of sushi) when in reality the only sushi I've ever tried has been from a supermarket, Pret A Manger or in a Boots meal-deal.  (Side note: my computer keeps trying to auto-correct Pret A Manger to Pet A Manger - which instead of "ready to eat", means "pet to eat" which is pretty sick.  NB: Sick in the original sense of the word, not the modernised meaning of "cool" or "rad").  

A couple nights ago I went to a Japanese restaurant called Sushi Jade in the 10th with a bunch of friends to eat sushi (surprisingly), à la buffet.  It was marvellous.  There was so much to choose from - like diving head-first into the ocean.  Seaweed, salmon, prawns, rice, soy sauce, wasabi, chilli, spring rolls, miso soup, tofu, fungi and other nourishing goodies were scattered in glorious array on three grand counters.  There was even something my friend described as "intestines", although he wasn't sure which animal or fish they belonged to.  I wasn't entirely convinced however, certain they were simply frilly weeds which grow on the sea floor.  Not that that sounds much more appetizing.

But when it came down to it, it was nice to finally eat a real prawn in Paris.  After my shocking experience (see Prawns with that?), it was clear no prawn-cutters were involved and these were indeed REAL prawns, plucked from the ocean, eyes and all.  Although you did have a choice to have the heads on or off.  While my friend decided to have the crustacean in its entirety, I opted for the slightly less "in your face" version which still had a tail and legs, but no black beady eyes staring at me.  And since I wouldn't be eating the eyes anyway, I decided I wasn't missing out.  After plunging the prawn into some spicy water which was slowly bubbling away on a stove in the middle of our table, I watched it bounce along the bottom of the pan, bumping into a few bits of overcooked tofu, feeling slightly guilty that its life was cut short for my pure eating pleasure.  The guilt subsided as soon as I removed its tail and shell, de-legged it, and popped it in my mouth.  Oh so tender.

Conversation turned towards a certain fish notorious in Japanese cuisine which has a habit to kill off people if not cooked properly.  Morbid chat at the dinner table is always my favourite.  Meet the pufferfish (aka Fugu).  You may be thinking of the character in Finding Nemo.  The one that talks, cracks a few jokes, makes a fool of itself, randomly explodes from time to time.  But think again.  Pufferfish meat is notorious due to the very fact that if prepared incorrectly it is lethally poisonous.  Why anyone would want to attempt to eat it when there are surely tastier, and less lethal alternatives on the market, is beyond me.  Talk about living an edgy life.  The chemical it contains is tetrodotoxin which is situated within the Fugu's internal organs and skin and has the ability to paralyze muscles, while its victim stays full conscious.  In a nutshell, your breathing is severely affected through your body's inability to consume sufficient oxygen, and you die of asphyxiation.  Hence why only specially licensed chefs are actually allowed to prepare the potentially lethal dish.  I wouldn't want to be the guinea pig in one of those restaurants...

And the pufferfish has a pretty morbid connection to Haiti where elements of the lethal fish were used in bokor's sorcery - the art of zombification, which was used as a punishment for serious crimes.  What no-one realised however was that while the fish had the ability to kill, more often than not it made people act as if they were dead, despite being quite the contrary. Thinking they were dead, people would be buried alive.  But since they were only temporarily resting, the victims, having been sentenced to the ground, would essentially resurrect themselves from "the dead" and believe themselves to be zombies.  I'd like to thank my friend Ben for this interesting story.   So in four days’ time on Halloween, you'll know the implications about dressing up as a Zombie.

Watch this space.

Montana

Irish Pubs (and Men)

There's nothing like an Irish pub in Paris to settle down to of an evening.  Guinness galore and green floating flags with four leaf clovers.  Baristas serving up pints of ridiculously overpriced Irish brews (because let's face it, we're still in Paris), speaking perfect English because they've migrated from the UK (usually the North) to find love, or whatever people go in search for in this city.  After the waiters embarrass you with comments like "I think it would be easier for both of us if you just speak in English", you realise that you're no longer on French turf and you are technically allowed, or rather, forced, to speak in English.  "Un verre de rosé s'il vous plait" usually gets a reply akin to "sure thing, can I get you anything else?", while my response usually aligns itself with Meryl Streep's blunt, but beautifully executed expression in The Devil Wears Prada: "that's all''.

It's nice to know the Irish pub tradition has swum across the Channel however and made itself prominent in Sunny France (btw, this is a total misconception.  The weather in Paris mirrors England's rainy days).  Nevertheless, I have frequented three different Irish pubs since being out here.  1)  Irish pubs seem to be the only drinking grounds still open when everywhere else is closed. 2) Irish pubs still welcome you in with open arms on Sundays (when the rest of Paris becomes a ghost town) - since they appreciate the need for a pint of Guinness after church.  3) They attract beautiful men (sort of).  4) They love their music.  Open Mic/Karaoke evenings are always well-received as far as I’m concerned.  Do I even have to mention the cute Irish chap performing on a makeshift stage, guitar in hand and gravelly vocals?  I think he just winked at me…*shivers*

After watching way too many chick flicks, I have it in my head that all Irish men look like Colin Farrell or Michael Fassbender.  That their gorgeous, slightly unshaven, chiselled faces are part of the common Irish gene pool, and that their accents were God's gift to mankind.  He may be Scottish, but Gerard Butler's Irish lilt (he is of Irish descent after all) in P.S. I Love You had me nothing short of weeping.  He just so perfectly encapsulated everything a man should be: Good looking, and Irish.  Apart from the fact that the film centres on his unexpected death (one of the greatest losses in film history), his voice-overs are enough to (as Essex boy Olly Murs so eloquently put), “make my heart skip, skip a beat”.  Of course I am thoroughly aware that Irish men tend to be notorious for their slight “bad-boy” persona.  Colin Farrell being an obvious contender for the prize.  But womanizer or not, Colin Farrell has the typically Irish "I like to be mysterious" vibe which keeps us girls in the lurch.  "Mysterious" in this context also meaning "I just want to stare at your face, for like, 500 hours". 

But as well as attracting all sorts of the best Irish brethren, Irish pubs also have a tendency to be the stomping ground for drunkards.  This Monday, a man (albeit, not Irish), between his 40s and 60s (drunks make it difficult to tell), decided that he would interrupt our girl "posse" to smell my hair.  As much as I appreciate being told I smell good, I'd rather this didn't involve up-close and personal contact involving my hair and his nose.  Personal space limits definitely exceeded here.  After he came out with a few cringe-worthy comments like "ravissante" and "charmante", I decided it was time to let this guy into a little secret.  Which went something like this: "We don't like you.  We don't speak French.  We don't like French men.  Go away."  In his delirium, he continued to comment on how "charming" we were (not sure if the guy understood our previous comment), so I decided that physical action was entirely necessary.  As I placed my hand on his arm, I began to push him, hoping he may topple over, get the message, leave us alone, and disturb his next victim.  Anything.  Instead, he pulled up full resistance.  By which I mean, tried to lean in for a kiss.  Flattered as I was, I left the guy hanging, lips pursed.

So apart from one moderately good-looking (albeit rather short) Frenchman singing his heart out as he strummed some tunes on the guitar, I was rather disappointed about the lack of eye-candy and Irish accents in this particular Irish pub.  The closest thing was a bunch of German men attempting to speak in English.  The lesson I've learnt?  Irish pubs in Paris don't tend to attract the Michael Fassbenders of the world.  You have to go to Hollywood for those.

Watch this space.

Montana

Hollywood's Paris

This weekend I went to a fabulous exhibition at Hotel de Ville called "Paris vu par Hollywood" (i.e. Paris seen by Hollywood).  Since Hollywood's conception in the early 20th century, Paris has captured a multitude of film directors who have been drawn to the city's romantic allure and celebrated scenery.  The portrayal of Paris in these films dates back to the iconic performances of Charlie Chaplin and later Gene Kelly, who appeared in films such as A Woman of Paris (1923) and An American in Paris (1951) respectively.  Paris has consequently been depicted in over 800 American films, one of the most recent being Woody Allen's 2011 production of Midnight in Paris starring French leading lady Marion Cotillard, as well as Martin Scorsese's coming of age adventure Hugo, shot entirely in 3D.  Two monumental statues created by Dante Ferreti for Scorsese’s film were commissioned for the exhibit.  I wondered for a moment if they weren’t indeed part of the hall’s aesthetic, standing ominously like carved pillars.

The exhibition spoke as much about Paris as the American public.  For the average American, Paris is touted as a place representing desire, pleasure and sophistication. McDonald's transforms into Tinseltown French Brasserie.  They discover before long French fashion like Givenchy and Jean Paul Gaultier which appear alien to their Wal-Mart bargains.  The exhibit itself showcased a variety of gowns and outfits, in particular some stunning creations from Hubert de Givenchy who designed many of Audrey Hepburn's iconic looks.  One of the exhibition’s highlights was a gold-sequined ball gown from the musical Lovely to Look At (1952) which was displayed behind glass in the centre of the grand hall.

What was beautifully evasive however was the word “fantasy” which sparkled on the walls in the form of posters and blown up movie clips of scenes involving vintage cars, baguettes and lots of French kissing.  Here we see the Paris of German-American filmmaker Ernst Lubitsch.  Lubitsch created dozens of films in the 20s and 30s using replicas of Paris, admitting “I’ve been to Paris, France, and I’ve been to Paris Paramount.  Paris Paramount is better.”

The exposition walks the voyeur through the history of Paris' illustration in silent films, towards the stylish Paris of romantic comedies, the Cancan with all the spirit of Moulin Rouge (1952), and lastly Paris as seen in Hollywood action films.  The exhibition showcases a variety of film clips featured on the 42-foot-long projection screen, including a scene from Funny Face (1957) starring Hepburn and Fred Estaire singing at the Eiffel Tower summit, creating none other than a romantic illusion.  Dozens of smaller screens scatter the aisles, exhibiting excerpts from films and interviews with the likes of Alfred Hitchcock.  Photographs and set models from Hollywood films are part of the 100 strong collection, paired with colourful mood boards and fabric trimmings.  Original sketches of Paris drawn in coloured chalks steal the show with their fine detailing and impressive clarity.  It is one of the few instances when a spectator outside the world of film can truly experience the aptitude of the artists involved in creating both sets and costumes first-hand.

My immediate impression was that of wanting to fall head-first into one of these blissfully charismatic models of Paris, until I realised that the Paris I’m in right now is so much more authentic than the one depicted on the Hollywood golden screen.  Rather, they are reconstitutions of the Paris effect in Hollywood studios, not only of an aesthetic existence, but also a Paris identifiable by American sensibilities.

Like the exhibition’s curator Antoine de Baecque says, “Paris in Hollywood is not the real city, it’s a cliché. It’s an American projection.”

Funky Asylum

It was Friday night and I made my way towards Faubourg Saint-Denis, the up-and-coming and much-hyped about quarter in the 10eme.  We’re talking edgy and slightly hipster, with a hint of je ne sais quoi to satisfy personal intrigue.  We’d rightly chosen funky asylum over shishi Parisian café, and rightly so.  I was oozing with anticipation.

As I walked down the street, map in hand, a soggy umbrella hanging from my wrist and last winter’s coat draped over my arm, I looked excitedly for the rather inconspicuously named “L’Inconnu” (“Unknown”), a relatively new stomping ground which sells itself on the profound literature of Victor Hugo: “Le bonheur est parfois caché dans l’inconnu” (Happiness is sometimes hidden in the unknown).  The irony however was visible when I noticed a bustling crowd of cigarette-clad students mounting on the street corner like wildfire.  It seemed that the bar was more well-known than its name gave it credit for.   Needless to say I’d struggle finding my friends inside.

The length of the actual bar resulted in long delays re: getting drinks, but my friends had secured a leather sofa and armchair near the door on which I immediately flung my belongings.  The humidity was noticeable as I felt my shirt sticking to my back and there was nothing I needed more than a glass of wine to revive me after a long day in the office.  The drinks were reasonably priced and after grabbing the attention of the barista I immediately ordered a glass of their rosé which seemed exceptionally attractive at only €3.  My thirst was quenched in a matter of seconds.

This was the first time we’d all been out as interns and it made a nice change from staring at a PC all day.  Conversations no longer revolved around shift schedules, non-functioning printers and necessary vending machine purchases to while away the hours of email-sending and photocopying.  Instead we discussed the office eye-candy, a subject which I admittedly was willing to spend a few hours on, but an area not as keenly engaged with by the other interns who were more attracted to cutting news headlines and prospective employment.  I jest...slightly.

I was then informed of a mysterious dance floor which I hadn’t as yet paid a visit to.  After pushing through the crowds, we waltzed down the steps as girls with short skirts and low cut tops tried to push their way back up towards the bar.  The men’s toilets were on our right as we made our descent, the urinals protected only by a small shutter, giving us an intrusive display of men peeing which I hadn’t premeditated.  Needless to say, the furore surrounding this attractive exhibition wasn’t coming from my end.

The propelling music was coming from a darkly lit room, set further in the depths of the cave-like lair.  It was like we were in the basement of someone’s house for an underground lock-in and empty glasses cluttered around what looked like a makeshift DJ booth.  Heads were bobbing to the rhythmic beats as DJ Slow and Piu Piu kept the volume levels paramount.  A few kisses were exchanged as “exotic” (change the “x” to an “r”) dance moves were displayed with no eyebrows raised.   

I felt a drip on my head and realised that the ceiling was leaking.  After touching the walls I realised that they too were damp.  I was initially fazed by this unusual addition to the evening, only hoping it wasn’t payback from the men’s urinals situation.  It was now more than ever like we’d been flung into a cave surrounded by sea water.  I was just hoping I wouldn’t step on any crabs in the process.

I soon saw light of it however and agreed that it definitely gave the bar a very “edgy” touch.  Pumping music, not plumbing, was clearly on the top of their prospectus.

Watch this space.

Montana

Free Cash?

So this whole French banking system is a bit puzzling.  They basically allow you a sort of free credit card scheme – which I only discovered earlier as I tripped into the realms of online banking, French style.  However much we’d like to believe that money will continue to sit in our bank accounts making high-end revenue, one can’t deny that it is typical for money to leave your account upon making cash withdrawals.  Let me make this simpler for you: Tom has five golf balls.  Tom is not a very good golfer.  Tom hits three balls into the lake.  How many golf balls does Tom have left?  The brainboxes among you may have calculated the mathematics of this incredulous sum in your multi-faceted minds.  For those of you who aren’t wired as such, may I propose that Tom only has 2 balls remaining?   Yes, that is the correct number of balls…

Moving away from balls.  What puzzles me is the lack of money movement which occurs when I pay up front with my debit card.  As far as I’m concerned right now, I could have minus money and I’d still be able to pin in my digits on a Michelin star meal and leave behind a smiling waiter.  Be it Eurostar tickets, an expensive meal you hadn’t budgeted enough cash for, or the phone bill which comes out of your account each month (ahem, they didn’t charge me extra for all those texts sent to foreign numbers….am I missing something here?), you can continue to use your debit card (à la credit), even without the appropriate funds.  For a second I thought that perhaps all that money I’d been ultra-spending on my card had sneaked through the system, making me €200 richer.  But indeed it appears that this €200 which I’ve built up over the past few weeks has been debited to my account; it just won’t leave it until the 2^nd November.  Although, if you’re not aware of this (like I wasn’t), you may fall into the trap of thinking you have umpteen pennies in your account to go wild with, because each time you withdraw cash and get a receipt, it won’t take into consideration that the majority of the money currently lurking there will actually be leaving your account in a couple weeks’ time.  Which is fine, if you know you’ll be getting a nice fat pay cheque at the end of the month to compensate for it.  I frankly quite enjoy this little credit card-esque way of spending money.  Makes me feel all grown up. 

So in a nutshell, my debit card and bank account aren’t wired on the same wavelength.  They’re pretty much separate entities that merge on the 1^st day of each month to balance out any outstanding payment.  This is my dull, but somewhat essential French discovery of the day for you!

And now I wonder why the French are charging me  €3,25 a month to keep my account going...

Watch this space.

Montana

Vicious Retaliation

Yep, that’s what I’m talking about.  Someone obviously found out about the hair dryer incident and has (justifiably) stolen my bin.  One of the stranger things to steal…after all, my laptop was sitting on my bed.  Correction: it still is sitting on my bed.  But apparently after diamonds, bins are today’s sought after "product de luxe".  Coming to think of it...a diamond studded bin would be quite a marvel.  And now I'm reminded of the London 2011 riots when a little kid was caught stealing a £50 waste bin from Debenhams.  Perhaps he was planning to use it to secrete his newly pinched 50-inch plasma screen.  Or maybe he simply had an appreciation for expensive trash cans.  Who knows... 

Whatever the reason, a bin is a rather odd item to remove from someone's bedroom.  Especially when it’s black and plastic.  If anyone knows the whereabouts of my bin, I’d be greatly appreciative if they could send it this way.  Or in fact, if anyone has a spare one floating about, that wouldn’t go amiss either.

Yours truly,

Montana

Stolen Goods

Yesterday, upon attempting to steal a hair dryer, I managed to hurt myself quite significantly.  Given that my hair is horrendously important to me, this hair dryer stealing business was no small matter.  

I managed to slyly pluck the electronic device from its socket and made my merry way back to my room.  Well, attempted.  I happened to scrape the side of my ankle against the bed post and watched as raw skin tore away from my foot, like a letterbox flap.  I imagined what would have happened if I'd literally collapsed and been unable to move, lying semi-conscious on the wooden floor as a pool of blood surrounded this blood-forsaken foot of mine and seeped through the cracks into the apartment below.  A tempting vinaigrette for that evening's salad.  And then, Prince Charming would fly through the sky on a flamingo to save me from my inevitable fate.  But the reality was, I'd be caught in the act, holding a stolen hair dryer.  The culprit in the story, not the victim.

After hobbling back to my room like a one-legged walrus (funny, since walruses don't actually have legs), I quietly lamented my foot's destiny.  Would this warrant a Disabled parking ticket I wonder?

And then, as I limped out of the apartment into the big wide world, I managed to slice my hand open on the handle of someone's bike.  (NB: Slice is perhaps a slight hyperbole - my hand is still intact.)  Nevertheless, anger mounted as I looked grudgingly at the bike, immediately feeling a strong aversion to its owner for leaving it in such a useless location.  Was this my punishment for momentarily stealing a hair dryer?

I'd even attempted to remove my finger prints with some cotton buds.  Definitely a future thief in the making...

Watch this space.

Montana

P.S. The picture you see above is a hair dryer revolver.  "The Hair Dryer" is slowly becoming a strong contender for my number one crime weapon for when I make it big time.

Sagging Bottoms

I just read an article on Yahoo entitled “Women in their 20s need to start fighting wrinkles”.  There was no advice as such for getting rid of said wrinkles (Yahoo, as ever the title grabber, but never the content giver), but instead a rather extensive 20 point list of things I have to look forward to in the future.  I’d just like to point out that this had nothing to do with me being paranoid about getting wrinkles as early as 21.  This had to do with me logging into my yahoo mail box and being thrown totally off guard by the closeness of the two words “wrinkles” and “20s”.  Also “fighting wrinkles” is a bit misleading.  I mean, what does this involve?  Smacking yourself in the face every time it looks like you’re about to get a smile line?   

Guess that Darth Vadar mask I mentioned in my previous post wouldn’t go amiss:

1. Getting wrinkles
2. Sagging face
3. Sagging boobs
4. Facial hair
5. Going grey
6. Middle aged spread
7. Wrinkly cleavage
8. Thinning hair
9. Sagging bottom
10. Bingo wings
11. Wrinkly hands
12. Getting a double chin
13. Thread veins
14. Getting crow’s feet
15. Receding gums
16. Getting age spots on hands
17. Thinning lips
18. Receding hair line
19. Bigger moles
20. Bigger ears

I’m nearing on 21 and thankfully, I’m not aware of any of these symptoms just yet.  In my very youthful naivety I did have to quickly Google “crow’s feet”.  I also hope my bottom doesn’t start sagging anytime soon.  And by sagging, I don’t mean *accidentally* showing my panties because my trousers are a size too big.  Boys, take note.  Essentially, the day I need upholstery for my dèrriere is the day I’ll start worrying about wrinkles.  But for now, I’ll enjoy being youthful. 

Watch this space.

Montana