When I lived in Paris for a summer my friends and I used to play a little game called ‘spot the American.’ Telltale signs: North Face fleece. Rainbow or Reef sandals. College sweatshirts. Loud voices. Broad gesticulations. Chanting, “U-S-A” repeatedly and for no apparent reason. (Just kidding about that last one, kind of.)
Of course my friends and I considered ourselves too continental to be lumped with the touring Yanks, and very carefully attempted to blend in with the populace whose lithe bodies, lightly tousled locks and androgynous-with-a-hint-of-the-feminine clothing choices gave them their distinctly parisienne look. Margaux (let’s call her Margaux) here exemplifies the Parisian essence that my friends and I, with dubious success, strove for.
Tell me you can’t imagine her sitting at a café in the quartier Latin smoking a Gauloise over a carafe of Bordeaux reading Sartre or discussing the finer points of love-making for hours on end. Or scooting through traffic on her Vespa with a baguette, block of brie and a poodle in tow. I could go on and on with the Paristereotypes (see what I did there?). But really, there’s not much more to say. Elle est magnifique.
One of the best shops in Paris: Zadig & Voltaire