Your Friday French Fashion Report: Alexander McQueen Fall/ Winter 2012

Rock 'n Roll Bondage Snow Queens vs. Space Age Headmistresses from Hell! It's all that and more from Sarah Burton for Alexander McQueen for Fall/Winter 2012. It's the classic battle of black vs. "white is the new black", lace up thigh high vs. ankle boot, model v 8 inches of stiletto heels. The faux fur flies as these bad ass warriors from Planet Sappho take no prisoners, the runway is their bitch tonight! Who will reign supreme, Snow Queens or Headmistresses? You be the judge!

ALEXANDER McQUEEN WOMEN PRÊT-À-PORTER FW 2011-2012 PFW

Your Friday French Rom-Com Part Five: Mr. Screensaver

"Stand right, walk left" is the rule of thumb on the escalators and moving walkways of Paris. Especially in a busy train station where people are frantically rushing to a rendezvous, or late for work. Fail to comply, and all bets are off! Of course les française will say "Pardon", but don't misinterpret the meaning. They are really saying, "Get the hell out of my way, you moron!" So when a young creeper blocked the fast lane on a trotteur to line 4 (as he tried to pick me up), you can imagine the vexation that ensued. If I'd had a rear view mirror, I would have seen a hundred faces fixed with what I like to call "the french furrow" - one giant collective uni-brow knit together in a frown. (Botox is definitely not the rage here.) Professing his love for me, he played his hand - a pair of deuces. "Piss off!" I said indelicately. I had already told him "No" with a capital N-O, and removed his hands from my body. Just then I saw an opening, and I maneuvered through it like a seasoned driver on the 405 at rush hour. Managing to stay one small step ahead of a tsunami of commuters, I never looked back. I assume Monsieur became lost in a sea of flotsam as the trotteur spat us out into an open hallway, where hundreds of people crisscrossed in an out of two separate tunnels to metro lines 4 and 12. This is no place for the timid, if you don't hold your ground and push your way through, you will be washed away like a grain of sand! Through the tunnel we snaked, first left, then right. A Rastafarian carved out a space in the corner at the left turn and sang reggae mon, his guitar plugged into the World's Cheapest Amplifier. I swear, you go upstairs just to go downstairs in the metro - it's like the infamous Winchester House! A young Gypsy woman sat smack dab on the steps halfway up, her eyes cast downward in false humility, her palm extended upward. Parisians have seen it all and the crowd pushed past, ignoring her. Finally I reached the quai, and jockeyed for position. During rush hour there would be no seats, and when you throw a perturbation into the mix it's difficult to even squeeze yourself onto the train. I glanced at the clock, I was right on schedule. "Bling" went my phone, signaling an incoming SMS. "The sheriff's a comin'!" (For those of you who know the movie "Blazing Saddles", you know what's next.) Before I could reply the train arrived, and I assessed the situation - sometimes it's best to wait it out if the cars are too crowded. Luck be a lady, the train arrived half full - I even secured a seat! Opening the phone, I composed my reply, "Hey, the sheriff is a ni-BONG!" I hit "send". I was a happy camper, how often do you meet a person who can quote your favorite movie? And he was tall, and he was handsome, and he was interesting. "Winning!" People stepped on and off the car as the train snaked it's way through Paris, stopping at St. Michel in the lively Quatier Latin, and heading toward Chatelet. There is a bistro I adore in Chatelet, and I wanted to share it with Mick. The train stopped at Cité, and a huge group of happy Italians boarded noisily - all talking at once. I had the sense they were one big family of sisters and cousins, nieces and nephews, grandchildren and married couples, all presided over by a formidable matriarch. Possessing a voice louder than all 15 of them put together, she commanded attention and respect as she herded her clan through the maze of Paris. Her ginormous breasts jiggled like Jello as she laughed heartily at something her grandson said, a cute teenager with a dazzling smile and a smart mouth. Her husband stood quietly in the background, content to observe his happy family together on vacation. He had willingly relinquished control to Mama decades ago, life being easier that way. The train screeched to a stop and I waded past Team Italia, offering a polite "Pardon". I located the proper sortie, (essential at a station as large as Chatelet) and ascended into the fresh air. Our designated location of rendezvous was the fountain at Place du Chatelet, and I spotted Mick standing beside one of the Sphinx, scanning the crowd for his date. I hung back for just a moment, drinking in this cool glass of water. There is something so sexy about a well groomed man, right girls? He brightened as I approached and moved toward me, taking me in his arms and kissing me tenderly on the lips. Damn he smelled good! Join me next week to find out if a) I swoon and fall backwards into the fountain, b) he smells so good I eat him for dinner, or c) his boss calls an emergency meeting before we get to the restaurant on Your Friday French Rom-Com!

The Glass Ceiling

"Do you consider yourself French?" I was lunching with a friend and posed this question, curious as to how she viewed herself. Born in Glendale, California, Madame C arrived as a college student over 30 years ago, met and married a dapper young Frenchman, and settled in her adopted country. They had three children together, who have married and started families of their own in France. Madame speaks perfect french (according to my sources), even if with a distinct American twang. She has worked in France for many years, attended her community church and sang with the choir, holds duel citizenship, and voting privileges. She has even been called to serve jury duty! "That's a good question" Madame C mused. She sipped her tea slowly as she took her time to think it through. "Well, I am almost french" she slowly, as if she didn't quite believe it. "My accent gives me away" she added, "and come to think of it, I do say things in a way that is American. So, I guess I would say no!" I was surprised (and yet, not). "That's amazing" I laughed, as I read the laundry list of her qualifications, "In America, if an immigrant has lived, worked, raised a family, learned the language, voted, and paid taxes for 30 years, he is an "American"! If you have lived there for 10 years you would be considered "American"! WTF France?" But interestingly enough, all of these things don't add up to a hill of beans in the minds of les française. Apparently, one must think like a Frenchman (a task more daunting than finding Jimmy Hoffa), have a lineage that excludes African ancestry, (second generation Algerians born in France are still considered "Algerian"), and learn to truly appreciate the aroma of unpasteurized cheese. Later that day I was speaking with a mutual friend, a Frenchman who has known Madame C for 20 years. "Would you consider Madame C to be french?" I asked, as I listed all the reasons she should. J.M. paused, scratching his nose and rubbing his chin between his thumb and forefinger, his other arm crossed over his chest. "Hmmm" he was searching his mind carefully. This was a loaded question, a difficult one to answer. "She has made a success here in France" he admitted, raising one eyebrow as well as his index finger, "but she is not exactly french". "What would make her french?" I asked. My friend shrugged, his lower lip jutting out just a bit, his eyebrows changing to resemble Shaggy's (from Scooby-Doo). "I don't know" was his answer.

Your Friday French Rom-Com Part Four: Mr. Screensaver

Note to self: Never run for a train, there will always be another one! Even during those pesky perturbations, when they run half schedule. And what better excuse to keep a gentleman waiting than the old french standby, "Le train etait rétardé!" (It's the parisian equivalent of "The dog ate my homework", but it carries a little more clout). But on this occasion I wasn't in the mood to spend 25 euros on a taxi into Paris, this was the only train into town this hour, and in the end I think it is inconsiderate to be more than 10 minutes late for a rendezvous. So I was determined to be on it, even if I had to run like a madwoman in 4" stiletto Italian shoes that would charm the most dedicated foot fetishist. I flung open the gate and sprinted out, without a care if it was locked behind me. The sidewalk was uneven and treacherous, I leaped off the curb into the street which was paved more evenly, and devoid of doggie doo. I could hear my train pulling into the quai, groaning and squealing under the strain of too many journeys as the driver applied the brakes. If I wasn't wearing these stupid shoes it would be a cinch, but I had three sets of stairs to negotiate once I got past the turnstile. I was nearing the plaza, paved with bricks and not at all conducive to the 50 yard dash. "EEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeKKKK!" The train stopped and the doors opened. I had less than 20 seconds before departure as I entered the Gare. I made it through the turnstile smoothly with my magnetic Navigo, and approached the first set of stairs. Ah stairs, my nemesis! I briefly considered taking off my shoes, but just briefly. I heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps in a panic behind me, and held the handrail just a little tighter as two teen aged boys raced past, determined to be on that train. "Wait for me!" I yelled at no one in particular. I had made it down staircase number two and through the doors. The bell signaling takeoff had not yet sounded, and I was in descent of staircase number three. The boys jumped into the nearest car and turned to watch the show. It's always fun to see someone run for a train, narrowly slipping through the "Jaws of Death" and into the car, victorious! (And it's the only time it's socially acceptable and unambiguous to smile at someone on a train). "Hold the door, hold the door!" I pleaded in English. I was too panicked to say it in french, I needed more time to switch the language tape in my head. The bell sounded as I reached the bottom of the staircase. I had less than 3 seconds to cover 3 meters and mount the stairs to the train before the Jaws of Death slammed in my face for good, and left me standing on the platform looking stupid. Flo Jo had nothing on me as I flew through the air, my feet barely touching the ground. The boys teamed up to help me, each one straining with all his might to hold the doors open. The train cannot depart if the doors aren't shut, (the practice of holding them open highly frowned upon by the Department of Train Scheduling). I leaped into the train, and when the boys let go of the doors they slammed shut immediately. "Merci" I smiled gratefully. "Whew! That was a close one!" "De rien" the boys replied, and we shared a community laugh. I found my seat and and sighed deeply, trying to regain my composure. It was a ten minute ride to Paris, and I closed my eyes and took a moment to catch my breath. My heart was pounding wildly, and the image of having a cardiac arrest on a suburban train flickered by like a silent movie. (At least I was wearing cute underwear!) Just then my phone blinged - an incoming SMS. "Looking forward to seeing you, xMick" it said. "Moi aussi" I replied, and thoughtfully checked my shoes for any possible damage sustained by my sprint to the train. With her mélange of cobblestones, potholes cemented and re-cemented, endless staircases, and canine booby traps, this town eats shoes for breakfast! Everything checked out, my pulse returned to almost normal, and I was on schedule. The next step: securing a space on the line 4. A busy line on the metro on a normal day, during a perturbation the cars are crammed full, and a queue of five people deep wait impatiently on the platform to push their way in. You see, a strike in Paris doesn't necessarily mean there will be no service. It's more like a one to three day demi-schedule. Perhaps one or two lines traversing Paris will be closed, and the others will run every 5 minutes instead of 3. Traffic from the closed lines is naturally rerouted, and the underground tunnels resemble a rats maze even more than normal as perturbed parisians push by one another, focused on getting home from work as quickly as possible. You must have your game face on, and fearlessly aggressive to secure a spot. The suburban train pulled into Gare Montparnasse, a major artery of transportation throughout l'Ile de France and beyond. The quai was already crowded with commuters who had waited extra long for a train home, and they barely let us disembark before pushing their way on board. "Oh la la" I groaned, as I weaved through the madding crowd. I hate crowds, and being in the middle of a perturbed, grouchy crowd is even worse. I pictured my handsome Englishman and kept my eye on the prize. I held on to my purse a little tighter and walked with purpose through the station, hesitating for no one. It's dog eat dog in the naked city! I stepped on to the trotteur, a moving walkway that expedites one's journey through the Gare, and stopped walking for a moment, letting the machine do the work. Just then a young African man stopped to my left, creating a bottleneck. When on an escalator or trotteur in Paris, the rule is "stand right, walk left". (The left side is a sort of passing lane, and as on the autoroute, it is considered rude to linger there). "You want to go someplace with me?" he asked, putting his arm around me. I shrugged off his arm and frowned. "NO!" I said, emphatically. "But you are beautiful, and I love you!" he insisted. I looked him in the eye. He smiled his most charming playa smile, his eyes twinkling. Join me next week to find out if I a) trade my handsome Englishman for a cute Senegalese, b) kick this creeper in the nuts, or c) get trampled by 1,000 angry frenchmen saying, "Pardon" on Your Friday Night French Rom-Com!

Le Marché aux Fleurs

It's April in Paris, the sun is shining, and the weather is fine. French men are frisky, and falling madly in love all over town. Tulips bloom in profusion, and the streets are filled with tourists in town on spring break. I am obsessed with my garden at present, planting primrose, dahlias, columbine and nasturtiums, and heavily engaged in the age old battle of man vs. escargot. "Ave yoo been to le marché aux fleurs?" Madame V inquired, "eet eez very bu-tee-fool!" We arranged a rendezvous, and after a delicious lunch at chéz V, we caught the bus and made our way to the l'Ile de Cité, the heart of ancient France. Back in medieval times, France was a tiny island where the Seine forked, and just a little beyond. For centuries Normandy was controlled by the English, Provence was her own, her fertile soil battled over by Rome, Spain, and England alike. It was the same to the north and the east as well, Europe was a mélange of feudal clans and monarchy's. It took centuries of bloody battles, carefully arranged marriages, and delicate diplomacy (not to mention bribes), before France expanded her territory to become as we recognize her today. So when you visit St. Chappelle, Notre Dame, and the Place Dauphin, you are standing in the original France! I was acutely aware of this as we approached the market, even as the buzz of modern life drowned out the whispers of ghosts from the past. Parisians eager to pimp their terraces with a profusion of bright colours peruse the market, comparing prices from vendor to vendor. Tourists flock to this famous marché to capture a Tweet-pic, and the proprietaire of each stall does their best to charm you into buying. I was in paradise, the hortensia's (hydrangeas) here are ginormous, and there are new hybrids available every year. There was wisteria blooming fragrant and violet, and great big begonias. One vendor specializes in cactus, which has become quite popular with Parisians! This is the last remaining open air flower market of it's kind in Paris, and the locals cherish it like they cherish St. Chappelle and unpasteurized cheese. Every Sunday a metamorphosis occurs, and flowers become birds at the equally famous Marché aux Oiseaux. A tradition in Paris since 1808, you can visit the Marché aux Fleurs from Monday - Saturday, 8h - 19:30, et aux Oiseaux every Sunday at a civilzed time. Metro ligne 4 to Cité.

Your Friday French Rom-Com Part Three: Mr. Screensaver

Heading home from my first rendezvous with Mick was a giddy affair, it had been a very successful first date as first dates go! We spoke easily on a variety of subjects, we had chocolate, we discovered we had the same favorite movie (Blazing Saddles), and nobody hurled. We made a date for dinner the following night, and I was on the way home considering restaurant and wardrobe options when my phone blinged - an incoming text from my handsome Englishman. "My mind is a raging torrent, flooded with rivulets of thought cascading into a waterfall of creative alternatives!" I squealed with delight - he was quoting Hedley Lamarr from our favorite film! I don't think I've ever met another human being who can randomly pull quotes out of their ass from this movie, but Blazing Saddles was our "Rocky Horror Picture Show". We know every line by heart. "You use your tongue prettier than a $20 whore" I texted back. Laughing out loud to myself, I was giving out crazy vibes (nobody dares laugh or smile for no apparent reason here), and the rush hour commuters I shared the train with stared disapprovingly. I wasn't phased, I gave up long ago trying to fit in. I went home and perused my closet. The next day was hectic, I had several clients and barely enough time to freshen up before my dinner date with Mick. Plus, there was a perturbation; a one day strike on half the metro lines in Paris. Not very effective in terms of favorable changes to one's contract, but very effective in perturbing their hapless victims; those who commute by train everyday. Of course, the line I was taking to our rendezvous is one of the busiest, and I could quite possibly have to wait for two or three trains before managing to cram myself into a car full of sweating, frowning Parisians like a sardine without olive oil. Then suddenly I remembered a rule of dating I had heard somewhere; a woman should be a little bit late! (I guess it has something to do with anticipation.) Taking a deep breath to decontracte, I applied my favorite fragrance at the pulse points, put on my Via Spiga CFM's, and headed out the door. Just as I was locking up, I heard an all too familiar sound, the faint roar of a distant train approaching. I live about 45 seconds from the station, but by my calculations the train would be en quai in about 30, and as I mentioned, I was wearing CFM's not Nike's. "Merde!" I exclaimed, "That's my train!" Now I can walk in my stilettos, and I can dance in my stilettos, (I can even make love in my stilettos), but I simply cannot run for a train in my stilettos! But I was determined to try. Across the terrace I ran - like Blanche DuBois in "The Golden Girls" - or perhaps it was Sophia. These were shoes one wears to walk to the car, which is parked in the garage, which is right outside the kitchen door, and is dropped off at the front of the restaurant in. Down the steps, I cleared the hose that snaked around the pathway menacingly, and rounded the corner to the front of the house. The train was close now, if I didn't have these damn shoes on I might be able to make it! I hit the buzzer to release the lock on the front gate, the train was just pulling into the station. I didn't bother to make sure the gate was latched, there was a strike on and this was the only train into Paris this hour! I got my Flo Jo on and stilettos or no, I defied the old axiom; "Never run for a train, there will always be another one!" Tune in next week and find out if: a) I trip on a pothole and do a face plant in the street, b) I make the train, but get caught in the "Jaws of Death", or c) I call a taxi on Your Friday Night French Rom-Com!