J'adore Paris
Authors: Isabelle Lafleche
J’adore Paris
ADVENTURES IN COUNTERFEIT CHIC
To my dear grandmother Marie, who encouraged me to write.
Your light still shines bright.
“America is my country and Paris is my home town.”
—Gertrude Stein
“W
elcome back, Mademoiselle Lambert,” the French customs officer at Charles de Gaulle Airport says after I’ve explained that I’m moving back to France. He hands me my passport, and I smile gratefully.
“
Merci, monsieur
. It’s great to be home.”
For me, moving back to Paris after a year away was, as they say in America, a no-brainer. It means a new job and a new life. I’ve received an enticing offer: to be Director of Intellectual Property for Christian Dior, a big change from corporate law on Wall Street. Besides, Antoine, my former colleague, now boyfriend, is here. It’s exhilarating to finally arrive in Paris with such an enviable position, an exciting new romance, and a new lease on life.
With my feet back on Gallic soil, I head giddily to the luggage carousel to retrieve my bags, beaming with the gushing smile of someone madly in love.
While I wait for my bags, my thoughts drift to the future: spending my days in one of the world’s most prestigious fashion houses, working on fascinating legal assignments involving jaw-droppingly beautiful haute couture and exquisitely handcrafted
métiers d’arts
. I just hope to fit in with the fashion crowd; corporate New York, where I spent the last year in an ocean of navy blue suits, may not be the best preparation for cutting-edge trends, but I’m confident that I’ll find my place.
It occurs to me that I’m at the exact location of an incident I read about in the news: five masked thieves took down four security guards at the airport’s freight terminal, making off with ten pallets of luxury merchandise valued at 500,000 euros. It sounds like something from a TV crime drama. Will my job at Dior involve things like that? It would be worlds away from drafting financial documents for Edwards & White—despite being one of the largest law firms in the world, my former employer was, for me, more like a paperwork factory. I’m ready for a change.
I spot my first piece of luggage—a navy blue Lancel leather satchel—on the conveyor belt and awkwardly wiggle my way to the front of the dense crowd to pull it onto my trolley. I had most of my belongings professionally packed and shipped to France, but my wardrobe I’ve brought myself. A tiny woman standing next to me gives me a nudge in the ribs as I reach for my fourth enormous bag. This one’s a hockey bag I picked up at the last minute at Target, at the suggestion of Lisa, my best friend in the United States. It earns me a few muttered insults and dirty looks from the other passengers,
most of whom are dealing with no more than tiny carry-on bags and Longchamp totes.
Embarrassed, I realize that my load could be taken for the luggage of an entire family of six arriving from JFK. In less than a year, I accumulated an impressive wardrobe in New York, thanks to the city’s endless sample sales and my weekend visits to Brooklyn flea markets. I’ve acquired sequined dresses from the 1930s, J.Crew earmuffs in a rainbow of colours, a vintage mauve and chestnut Diane von Furstenberg silk leisure suit (which I’ve never worn), UGG boots, and a selection of exquisite Dior items I snapped up at a steep discount at an employee sale, not to mention a bright green Kate Spade hat embroidered with the words
I Need a Vacation
. I know some of these accoutrements will stand out in chic Paris, where an understated palette of grey, beige, and navy is favoured, but I’ve also inherited that fearless New York “tough luck” attitude, and it’s liberating. If Parisians don’t like it,
tant pis
.
I push my trolley to the automatic doors at the arrivals gate and ask (or rather, beg) a taxi driver for help. He gives me a nasty look and tries to disappear toward the exit, but I don’t give up. After a few minutes of sweet talking and the offer of an exorbitant tip, he reluctantly agrees to drive me (cab-wrangling: another skill I acquired in New York). It reminds me that service with a smile isn’t this city’s strongest suit. Once I’m comfortably seated in the back of the taxi with my bags securely loaded, I instruct the driver to head to Antoine’s apartment on rue du Bac, in the heart of Saint-Germain-des-Prés.
The driver rolls his eyes as if my destination is totally predictable. I must look like a stereotypical resident of the bobo neighbourhood I’m moving to, where
bourgeois
meets
bohème
. This suits me fine: I’m looking forward to fitting into the Rive Gauche’s chic, artistic vibe. I ignore him; it’s best to save my energy for the big hug I’ll give Antoine when I see him later. I just hope he doesn’t get home too early and catch me trying to fit all of my clothes into his closets.
We drive past billboards plastered with ads for luxury brands such as Chaumet and Boucheron, and I’m reminded that I’m about to get a taste of this refined world. While the time I’ve spent practising law—before Edwards & White in New York, I worked for the company’s Paris office for six years—has sharpened my legal skills and business acumen, it has also forced me to push aside my passion for art and style for far too long.
As Balzac eloquently put it,
An unfulfilled vocation drains the colour from a man’s entire existence
. I’m glad I haven’t waited too long to heed his wisdom. Thankfully, Dior agreed to hire Rikash, my invaluable assistant—more like godsend. I couldn’t dream of moving to Paris without him; in New York he had become my right arm, left leg, and trusted confidant.
I missed Paris while working for a big American firm. My friend Lisa once observed that the French capital, with its round arches, curvaceous bridges, flowing water, incandescent light, and street names such as rue Madame and rue Princesse, represents a feminine energy, whereas New York exudes a masculine one, with its towering skyscrapers, rigid city blocks, and
raw aggression. As my driver makes a turn onto the majestic boulevard Saint-Germain, and I take in the splendid architecture and the bustling cafés so brilliantly captured in Brassaï’s photographs, I appreciate this metaphor more than ever.
To me, New York is like a strong cup of espresso: intense, over-stimulating, and brimming with excitement, whereas Paris is more like a meringue: sweet, airy, and light. I’ll be glad to once again bask in all the beauty and charm this city has to offer.
Allez
, bring on the silk pastel dresses, the frilly lingerie, and the exquisite
macarons
. My soul is ready for the change.
I arrive in front of my new apartment on one of the most attractive streets in Paris, and my heart skips a beat. It’s located near the Musée d’Orsay, the Louvre, and the Jardins du Luxembourg. Barthélémy, one of my favourite cheese shops, is located only steps away on rue de Grenelle. And knowing that I’ll be living so close to La Pâtisserie des Rêves, a heralded dream of a place that offers the best éclairs and lemon pie in the world, makes me grin like a child.
After (over)paying the driver, I start manoeuvring my bags into the tiny elevator of our Haussmannian building. I’m forced to take three separate trips up to the sixth floor, and end up monopolizing the tiny contraption for a solid twenty minutes. I long for the efficiency of those sturdy New York models that can hold three tons worth of people and merchandise at a time. I haul my bags into the elevator, one by one, under the suspicious gaze of the building’s concierge, Madame Roussel, a lady of a certain age who, according to Antoine, takes immaculate care of the premises and who clearly doesn’t appreciate
me dragging my enormous hockey bag along her polished floor. I mutter a sheepish
“Désolée, madame,”
but she ignores me and walks away.
It doesn’t matter, because as soon as I open the door, I forget all the trouble I went through to get here.
I plop my bags on the kitchen floor and notice a spectacular bouquet of pink peonies in a vase next to a chilled bottle of pink Taittinger. A note is scribbled on a piece of monogrammed paper:
I’m so happy you’ve finally made it, ma chérie. Make yourself comfortable, I should be home around five. I’ve made reservations for dinner at our special place. Je t’aime
.
Antoine
I hold the note up to my nose, inhaling the faint scent of his cologne, and feel dizzy with happiness. I look around, taking in the warmth and the love emanating from every corner of the apartment. It’s really a gem of a place: a one-bedroom with an office that faces a lovely courtyard and with lots of light. Its decor is mostly masculine in feel right now, dominated by muted neutrals, but I hope to insert a feminine touch here and there: a gold sunburst mirror we picked up together at the Chelsea flea market will look lovely atop the mantle in the living room; a snow white desk I bought at the MOMA store will hold court in our office; and I will scatter some coffee-table books throughout the space. Finally, my
beloved Marc Clauzade painting of stylish ladies window-shopping in Paris in the 1940s will look sublime over my vanity in our bedroom.
I imagine having our families and friends over for lively dinner parties and spending weekends reading in front of the fire. We’ll support each other and respect each other’s personal space.
I decide to pour myself a glass of pink bubbly to help ease the pain of unpacking. I have to do it now; I don’t want Antoine to really see the absurd amount of clothes and accessories I’ve amassed after embracing New York–style retail therapy.
He’s mentioned that I should use the closet in the office to store my belongings, since the one in our bedroom is a bit small. When I open the door and discover that the office closet is about the size of a mouse hole, I nearly fall over my hockey bag—
Ah, non! C’est pas vrai!
—while trying to hold on to my Champagne flute. He can’t be serious, can he?
I take a deep breath and march into the kitchen for a second glass of Champagne while I devise an unpacking strategy. Miraculously, the alcohol allows me to become
very
creative about storage: I decide it’s best to remove Antoine’s sporting equipment from the hall closet and place it in the office instead. I then place his collection of sneakers in the
chambre froide
—the pantry—since it’s barely being used and has excellent air circulation. Afterward, I meticulously arrange my cocktail dresses, work attire, and shoes according to colour in the hall closet. Convinced he won’t mind, I store my handbags, jewellery, and accessories in the bedroom armoire.
Voilà!
I decide to get rid of the incriminating evidence and throw the shoddy hockey bag into the communal trash.
Proud of the result, I serve myself one last glass of bubbly and take it with me into the bath so I can relax before dinner. Watching my lavender salts melt into the soothing hot water, I envision slipping into a chic black cocktail dress with matching pumps, putting my hair up in a classy chignon, and painting my lips a bright cherry red, courtesy of Chanel’s impeccable Rouge Coco.
Unfortunately, even the best plans sometimes go awry. I wake up an hour or so later, naked in an empty tub, looking up at a puzzled Antoine, who is dangling my discarded hockey bag in one hand and one of my Dior platforms in the other.
“Catherine? Are you okay,
mon ange
? Madame Roussel told me this bag belongs to you; she found it in the trash. What’s up with all of this stuff, and what happened to my shoes and biking gear?”
Oh la la, bienvenue à Paris
.
“To us.” Antoine raises his wineglass after we’re seated at one of our favourite haunts: le Bistrot d’Henri, a quaint, rustic French art deco bistro located near Saint-Sulpice, a short walk from the apartment. We’ve come here a handful of times during my visits over the last few months, including after my formal interview at Dior three months ago. The low ceiling
makes it feel romantic and private, and we’ve come to know the owner.
“To us,
mon chéri
.” I clink back with a glass of water. I’ve had enough to drink for one day.
After a sobering rearranging of our closets in a more (according to Antoine) useful and equitable way, and a long welcome embrace, we sauntered here arm in arm to celebrate my official move to Paris. In no mood to get formal after a second bout of unpacking, I threw on a comfortable pair of black jeans and a simple cashmere sweater with ballerina flats.
“Sorry for turning your apartment into
Project Runway
,” I say, feeling slightly mortified.
“First of all, Catou, you need to remember that it isn’t
my
apartment; it’s
ours
now. And you don’t need to apologize. We’ll figure something out. I just wasn’t expecting such a massive landing of women’s clothing.”
I cringe at his words. I went on so many shopping sprees to forget about my very stressful Manhattan job. I vow to avoid this behaviour in the future. Both my spirit and my bank account will thank me for it.
“Besides, I much prefer it when you lie around our apartment naked.”
“Ha! That might be okay at home, but I’m sure it won’t go over too well at Dior. I need all those clothes; who knows what kind of dress code is enforced there?”
“You’ll find out soon enough. And you probably have some kind of employee discount, which means you’ll be bringing
home more clothes that we don’t have any room for.” He playfully pokes my nose and signals to the waiter to bring the menu. “We need to implement a new rule: for every new item you bring home, one needs to be tossed out.”
“Okay, fair enough. Consider it a
marché conclu
.” Moving in with your better half requires a few concessions. “On one condition: that rule also applies to your record and vintage T-shirt collection.”
After Antoine orders us the house specialty, a hearty lamb stew that’s been cooked for hours, accompanied by potatoes au gratin with nutmeg, I drop the final bomb about my belongings, hoping we can finally change the subject. “The rest of my things will arrive next week,” I say tentatively, wishing for a moment I had ordered a glass of red myself. I try to soften the blow. “But don’t worry, it’s only a few boxes of books and things for the apartment, and I already know where I’ll put them.”
Antoine’s face drops and he sinks back into his chair, but then he surprises me by rolling up his sleeves and moving in for a kiss. “You’ve already captured my heart, so the apartment is yours for the taking. I consider it a not-so-hostile takeover.” He smiles broadly, revealing his boyish dimples. His laughing brown eyes look right through me, and I feel a jolt of lightning through my body.