Pretty in Paris

Until this afternoon, I rather feared that re-stocking my make-up bag would be downright impossible.  I began to prepare for the worst.  I’d purchased some dark glasses for my eyes and a shawl to cover my face.  This was the temporary plan, at least.  Darth Vadar Style.  My beloved brands like No 7, Barry M and Max Factor didn’t seem to grace the Parisian periphery, and Maybelline was only available online.  Whatever would I do?  I’d already parted ways with Herbal Essences, but I wasn’t willing to part ways with my face too.  No, this simply would not do.

Paris, as I have previously lamented, doesn’t have a Boots.  Its semi-alternative is Sephora – which sells make-up that costs you an arm and a leg.  As much as my beauty regime is important to me, I’d rather not spend €30 on some mascara, just because someone decided to scribble Yves Saint Laurent or Estée Lauder across it.  I was beginning to wonder where people in this country actually buy their make-up.  Are they all insanely rich, or am I missing something?  Or perhaps they’re all so naturally beautiful that they don’t rely on smacking on layer after layer of foundation TOWIE style?   

One discovery I did find is that if you’re not fussy at all, you’ll find outrageously cheap beauty products in station concourses.  I went down this route the first time, chuffed at myself for finding €2 mascara.  Let’s just say, I won’t be going back anytime soon.  Not only is it making me look like I have one large eye-lash (shexy), it’s also so flat that it doesn’t give me any of the extra volume I was promised.  Rimmel’s “Get yourself the London look” never seemed a more appropriate slogan than right now.  Because apparently, the Parisian flaccid eyelash look doesn’t suit me so well.

Upon waltzing into Monoprix today on my way to spending yet another small fortune on a baguette, some frozen peas and a tangerine, I came across a blissful discovery.  Not only did I spot make-up galore, but I also couldn’t help notice exactly the same Maybelline mascara I’d be lusting after for so long.  It was like my eyes had finally been opened.  Literally.

And then I bought some Covent Garden mushroom soup because it was raining, and I fancied celebrating*.  Although I did buy some boeuf bourguignon from the Deli counter too, just to make sure I didn’t indulge too much in my roots.

Watch this space.

Montana

  
*I'd just like to clarify that this celebrating has to do with me finally purchasing mascara, not the fact that it was raining.  

Shakespeare & Company

A stone’s throw away from Notre Dame is the fabulously quaint Shakespeare & Company.  Simultaneously a bookshop and a library bearing all the charm of a ramshackle writer’s den, this little literature haven is sure to get your inner bibliophile going!  Crooked shelves laden with off the beaten track volumes; kinked ladders to reach the top ledge, gleaming with stacks of musky leather-bound books.  It is no wonder then that movie icon Woody Allen chose to feature the rustic pile in last year’s production of Midnight in Paris.

The ground floor serves partly as an English Literature bookshop, stocking books for university students and the like, while the first floor comprises a tea room, a children’s play area and reading rooms, playing host to literary discussions, writers’ meetings and group poetry reading.  The view from the tea room takes a stunning sweep of the River Seine and Notre Dame which is idyllically placed on the opposite side of the river bank.  In spring, two pink blossom trees thrive outside the antiquated building with old-fashioned stools and benches to while away all those hours reading and absorbing the energy of the books which amass in tiny stalls outside the shop’s forest green exterior.  

A narrow winding staircase connects the two floors, not wide enough for more than one person to pass at one time.  Post-it notes have been stuck onto every nook and cranny; love notes, not-so-secretive messages and favourite literary quotes filter through the shop’s partitions.  Comfy armchairs and beds are offered for impulsive napping, or more long-term residency.  George Whitman, the shop’s previous owner, would refer to these overnight operations as “Hotel Tumbleweed”.  Books would be placed to one side and improvised beds that double as book displays during the day would be commandeered by writers, artists and musicians.  “The first step toward entry” says Kate McBride, “was to show George your manuscript, write a short autobiography and, if he approved, you were in rent-free, in exchange for working the check-out desk, re-shelving books, cleaning and errand-running.”  A vintage chess table and ancient piano sit contentedly side by side and a modest writer’s alcove with an old-fashioned typewriter rests diffidently in one corner.  The spirit of the place is so fully captured in just one blink of an eyelid that it is impossible to question its on-going prominence in literary history.

The original Shakespeare & Company was opened in Paris in 1919 by American expatriate Sylvia Beach, and was frequented by Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ezra Pound to name a few.  This former book shop was located in Paris’ 6eme, in an area called Odéon, not far from where I’m living right now.  The literary sanctuary was soon nicknamed “Stratford-on Odéon” by Ulysses author James Joyce who created his office within its walls.  It is interesting to note too that it was Beach who initially published Joyce’s epic after it had been banned in the UK and USA.  The bookshop sadly closed in June 1940 however during the German occupation of France in WWII and never re-opened.

Just over ten years later, George Whitman from the USA opened another English-language bookshop on Paris’s Left Bank and called it Le Mistral.  Set up in the site of a 16^th-century monastery, Whitman tried to recreate it as a focal point for literary culture in bohemian Paris, much like that of Beach’s.  It wasn’t until 1964, after Beach’s death, that Whitman chose to rename it “Shakespeare & Company”, after she left him the legal rights to the shop’s name in her will.  When Whitman died in 2011, aged 98, he bestowed the shop to his only daughter, Sylvia Beach Whitman, who was named in tribute to the former shop’s owner.  

The shop remains to this day eclectically cluttered with rows and rows of books set on uneven wooden cases to picturesque effect.  What is truly most remarkable however is how the bookshop hasn’t lost any resemblance to a former time.

Watch this space.

Montana

Facebook: Why You No Like Me?

You don’t realise how much you rely on Facebook until all access is denied.  Until the beautiful blue background and “f” icon are no longer popping up automatically on your homepage.  Perhaps because you’re with Virgin Media; in Per-ah on your Gap Yah; or maybe your laptop gets a virus and decides it will let you onto every website, bar Facebook.  The latter occurred to moi last night.  Every time I hit enter on www.facebook.com it referred me to Yahoo and said my request could not be found.  To say I was disappointed is an understatement.  Is my laptop trying to tell me something?  Should I really be spending less time on Facebook?  Discuss. 

I realise that most of my tech-related problems can be solved by querying those on my Facebook friendship list which simply involves scamming them with a status or two.  Usually however, this is greeted more with sarcasm and dirty humour, rather than assistance.  But since I couldn’t access Facebook, I instead had to settle with its smaller, and less attractive sister (aka Twitter) to garner support.  But no-one tweeted me with a reply.  Hashtag, sad face.  One day, Microsoft Word will recognise the verb “tweeted”; no, dictionary, do not accuse me of “verb confusion”.  This is 21^st century lingo.   Get over it!

And then I succumbed to the Google search engine to find out what exactly was wrong.  Was Facebook just having an off-day?  Was it fed a dodgy prawn?  I was informed instead of a redirecting virus which often plagues popular websites like Facebook.  So instead of finding myself updating my timeline, I spent a good half an hour trawling through Yahoo Answers to find a decent solution for my desperation.  I was then directed to a site which specialises in debugging referring website hackers – plus, it’s free to sign up.  Emphasis on “sign up”.  After watching it scan my computer for a good forty minutes it told me that it had detected 1343 problems.  Healthy.  It then (generously) offers to erase 20 of these problems, free of charge.  Which is great, if you have fewer than 20 problems flickering away menacingly on your hard-drive. Otherwise, it was a monthly charge of $30.  It’s like asking someone for a cheque for £8,000 and getting a 50p coin.  Talk about unwanted tokens.  “It’s the thought that counts” is an irrelevant statement in times like this.  Feeding a child a crumb of bread doesn’t cure hunger either…

So after depressingly staring into the soul of my computer for a good hour I realised that I could do little more than restart it.  Perhaps if I restarted it, it would forget it had the virus?  Maybe it just needed a nap to freshen up?  Another twenty minutes went by and my computer decided to prepare “updates”.  After she finally woke up, I tried a bash at Google and typed in Facebook.  To my pure delight, I wasn’t redirected to another webpage, but allowed instead to enter the magical realms of Facebook and shiny red notifications.  It was like being reunited with a friend after a long tryst, or getting to hold a new-born puppy.  

It’s amazing what an hour and a half without Facebook can do to your emotions.

Watch this space.

Montana

Sleepless in Paris

One night a year on a Saturday, Paris stays awake for “La Nuit Blanche”.  In English this translates as “sleepless night”, which inevitably makes me think of Sleepless in Seattle.  And there’s something to be said about Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan meeting at the Empire State Building too.  I thought it would be fitting to re-enact this moment, but instead of mocking up an Empire State Building in Paris, what better place to meet than directly under the Eiffel Tower before marching off into the night?  So that’s exactly what I did.

There are probably easier places to meet than under the Eiffel Tower however.  Number one, it’s a bit clichéd so everyone does it, which leads to number two which is that it gets a little crowded so you see a lot of lost faces searching intently for friends, lovers and online targets.  Made worse by it being night-time (hello darkness), which comes in at number three.  This wasn’t helped by the fact that it was also raining, which didn’t exactly enrich my vision and meant every Sam, Bill and Harry was either holding an umbrella or wearing a rain coat.  Chameleon city.  But eventually I found my friends and after complaining nonstop about the weather, the cold, the puddles and the fact that I was tired, we went on our merry way.   I notice I’m being very cynical.  Never underestimate meeting someone under the Eiffel Tower.  It's a pretty breath-taking affair.

I have a feeling we then wondered over a bridge somewhere, excitedly pointed at a boat which was all lit up, politely declined an invitation to hop on a moving party bus (I lie, we weren’t actually invited), and played an intriguing game called “spot the puddle” which usually ended with someone getting wet feet before the puddle was spotted.  That was until we got an event plan for the evening, received a free bag full of “goodies” (aka fliers), and hopped on the tube.  Since 2 out of the 3 of us enjoy flocking regularly to the theatre, we decided to go Le Theatre du Rond-Point to satisfy our inner thespian.  Turns out that it was actually “psychoanalysis night”.  Oh, Freud would be proud.  So I essentially waited in a queue for half an hour to speak to a woman in a 60s wig and a royal blue woollen suit (I say 60s, but I’m pretty much guessing the decade).  A woman who then gave me a black stain on a piece of paper and told me to speak, as if this stain would stir my very own Oedipus complex.  Speaking French is hard enough already, but having to stare at an unrecognisable mark for five whole minutes and comment on it in French so that a woman can go all Freudian on you is another matter altogether.  It went something like “Je vois le visage d’un bull”.  “And what’s this bull like?” she would ask.  As much as I wanted to say “it’s the same bull you’re looking at, so why don’t you tell me?”, I responded with “err…aggresif, violent, grand”.  She nodded annoyingly, as if she were trying to determine my inner being; as if she had me all figured.  As I peered deeper into the image I started seeing floating rabbits, gory faces, gloomy caves and deserted islands.  I do think it’s dangerous to stare at something for too long.  Especially when you’re told that you’re actually looking at a picture of your mother.  Her last words to me? “Reflect on this”.  Well that’s useful.  Aren’t you the one who’s supposed to do the reflecting for me?  Don’t make me do your job!

The night ensued and queues for all the worthwhile galleries and museums were snaking round the city.  Next stop was a nightclub turned old-fashioned projection room with random, unrelated images which were flashing up on a concrete wall.  It was trying ever so hard to be artsy, but all it succeeded in giving me was a headache.  Projectors aside, this looked like no nightclub I’d ever been in before.  No alcohol stains or sticky sofas; no bar area or flashing spotlights.  Just a semi-underground concrete block.  Hello prison!

The next part of the night was a little too exciting.  Imagine going to Disneyland for the first time.  Triple that.  This was the extent of my excitement.  Bubbles.  Whatever legend says, bubbles are not just for kids.  And whenever I think of bubbles I can’t help but be reminded of the scene in Finding Nemo in the fish tank.  And anything that reminds me of Finding Nemo has the thumbs up from me.  Blowing bubbles is definitely an underrated activity.  But having a bubble machine that lights up and produces bubbles faster than I can say the word “bubbles”, made this little “occasion” in a league of its own.  Physics bored me in school.  But these were rainbow coloured bubbles.  I then realised that it was the refraction of light and ROYGBIV suddenly all made sense to me. 

I then went to the most amazing ice-cream shop known to man, courtesy of a friend who is all too aware of my sweet tooth.  They even make your ice-cream in the shape of rose petals.  Unnecessary, but oh so pwetty.  They didn’t have my beloved mint choc chip which would usually infuriate me, but I decided that since I was in one of Paris’s most revered ice-cream parlours, it would be rude not to try one of their many gourmet flavours.  Thankfully my friend was a connoisseur so pointed me in the right direction.  Anything that looks and tastes mildly like nutella has always got my vote.  Secondly, Speculoos.  This name makes me laugh because it’s just, well, funny.  But the flavour was sensational.  Tasted almost like a mild ginger nut biscuit within an ice-cream, with caramelised sugar cane, cinnamon and nutmeg (apparently).  Unfortunately my taste-buds aren’t that refined.  But whatever they put in it was darn tasty!  After feeling rather chuffed with myself as I held my ice-cream in one hand and my umbrella in the other, I licked the ice-cream like there was no stopping me.  Talk about guilty pleasures.

I was tucked up in bed by 3am because I had work the next morning (on a Sunday, yes).  But even though I wasn’t Sleepless in Paris, I was still Dreaming of Paris.

Watch this space.

Montana