I'LL ALWAYS HAVE PARIS
Once mythologized, now personalized - a short story of me and Paree.
When I was in my early 30s, on my birthday I would convene a group of girlfriends to go to Paris. (This trip for girls was creatively named “Girls’ Trip.”) I’d been to Paris a few times before, when I was living in London with some traveling Aussies in the late Nineties, most memorably when I took myself solo to the Paris shows, knowing nobody and sitting in approximately Row X at Martine Sitbon.
So the birthday trips, you see, were a step up. Our gaggle of ladies stayed at the Hotel Bonaparte, in the fancy St Germain neighborhood. Sadly, the hotel did not match the location: the elevator fit one person, we found random pills under our beds and enjoyed our first exposure to the immortal line: “Pas possible.”
But were we bothered? Non! It was Paris! The beauty, the mythology, the gold! Golden Jeanne d’Arc on her golden horse! The magic, perfect clouds that looked even more so over the Louvre Pyramid. Everything gleamed, marrying history and glory the way that only Paris can.
For my birthday dinner, we would reserve a big table at Le Voltaire. Yes, it was historic – the restaurant, which has been in business for over a century, is named after the building’s famed resident, writer Voltaire, who lived there in the 17th century. But I also loved it because it was glamorous: all the French fashion people went there and damn if I didn’t want to be one of them (well, for a night anyway). One night our overexcited bunch was in residence, Mick Jagger walked in, and was spirited into a back room. We were as satiated by that as we were by the chocolate mousse and baby framboise.
I’ve been to Paris many, many times since, in rather more bougie circumstances. For photo shoots with Karl Lagerfeld for Harper’s BAZAAR, cover stories with actresses and during my time at InStyle, fashion shows four times a year. And I love it, I do. But I’m not in love with it. My youthful obsession has morphed into a more mature perspective. Paris can either be the best of times or the worst, which is funny because so many Parisians thrive on ambiguité. Especially when a large part of your experience is filtered through the fashion world, which has its own exclusive category in the Best/ Worst Pantheon.
Through the fashion filter, Paris is this: hotel, car, show, car, grab a sandwich, The Ritz for a meeting you hope someone else is paying for, show, car, show, car, then dinner at 9.30 at one of three restaurants deemed worthy by the fashion crowd (one of the three will be owned by the Costes brothers). And that’s fine and glam (even the sandwich, if the ham is really good), but it’s not very adventurous. You miss a lot of golden things when you’re texting the office from your car.
What I’ve learned about Paris is to make it your own – whether it’s your first time as a tourist or your 20th time as a fashion editor. To not expect the world from it – “pas possible!” – but to amble your way through it. Literally, put on your most comfortable pair of sneakers and walk until you think your legs will give out.
Last week I was in town to do a shoot with the brand Sezane, which I’m doing a collection with, out in November (super bon!). I came in a couple days before to see some friends and… amble. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d done that (maybe the girls’ trip, but we were drunk all the time).
I exhumed myself from bed on a Sunday morning and took a taxi to the Porte du Vanves flea market. I was in a jet lag coma but this funny, shabby/glam market (the homelier sister of the famed Clignancourt) never fails to make me smile. It starts at 8am and I swear, by noon they are packing up their mirrors and buttons and brooches and silverware and matchbooks. Whenever I go there, without fail, I buy something breakable, almost in a challenge to myself to get it back in one piece to NYC.
And I did indeed buy the breakable thing – a camp little opaline jewelry holder with a image of a fop fanning a lady. Victorious, I headed back to St Germain, and the restaurant Aux Pres on Rue du Dragon. Aux Pres is the brainchild of the chef Cyril Lignac, who is a culinary god in Paris, and it’s beyond. I had a glass of rosé (OK, then another) and ate the most incredible salmon crispy rice that was ever made.
After, me and my breakables got in a cab to the Marais to toodle around. The greatest joy of wandering the Marais for me is the iconic tile art (installed under cover of darkness) by the street artist Invader. His classic digital aliens, Snoopy, Kermit the Frog…everything you can imagine. All you have to do is look up. I went to visit my new friend Thibo who runs a gorgeous store called Pot Paris (you won’t believe it, they sell pots) and bought another, larger breakable.
Weighed down by ceramics, I raced back to the hotel for a nap and then a drink at L’Hotel in St Germain. L’Hotel is famously where Oscar Wilde lived and died (it was called Hôtel d'Alsace then). The hotel bar is magic, ornate and secretive. And the carpet, leopard as far as the eye can see. Go for a rosé champagne and congratulate yourself on your choices.
Then, for dinner, Le Voltaire. Almost 20 years later, Le Voltaire is my Cheers. It’s funny how you reconcile things you once held on a pedestal; sometimes they just become your home. The first thing I do on coming to Paris is call my friend Angelos, the young Greek owner, and tell him I’m coming in. It may not be during Fashion Week, and while I normally go with a Frenchie pal, I’m as happy sitting by myself in that great dining room as I was at my birthday dinners all those years ago.
And then, I walk home. Seeing gold all the way.
We'll always have the revolting Hotel Bonaparte. I remember closing the deal with Mesh on that trip, which meant that by the following year, I was living in France. Hotel Bonaparte did not scare me off is what I'm saying.
Adore Paris. Even though some of the 7 years I lived there were tough! Have an urging to go back, though - home is where the heart is, and all.