I’ve lived in Paris for fourteen months. By now, you’d think I would have a better accent. I don’t. My French remains abominable. I have, however, picked up on a few key French phrases.
Full disclosure: before posting this video, I played it for Mr. Reluctant P.–not to get permission, mind you, but because he is my Irish backstop. I can say that (I think) because he’s Irish. It’s his job to keep me from doing things I will later regret.
After watching the video, Mr. Reluctant P. said, “You look batsh*it crazy.” He said it in an affectionate way, not a condescending or even mildly alarmed way, which is why I did not open up a can of Alabama and all that.
I said, “I was going more for verisimilitude.”
He said, “Well, it has that. You say pas wrong, but still…”
I lived in Paris from 2018 to the end of 2020. I loved a lot of things about Paris–the architecture, the metro, the parks, the boulangeries, the style. Especially the tasteful, uncomplicated style. I found that dressing like a Parisian is simple. It’s easy to spot a tourist in Paris, but it’s so easy to not look like one. My first week in Paris, an elderly French couple stopped me to ask me for directions. This felt like a stamp of approval. I must have looked un peu français, non? If you think you have to go to Paris to find French style, think again. Many of the clothes I brought from home, purchased from American brands you already know, served me quite well in Paris.
Batignolles biomarchehot chocolate in a silk dress at Angelina’sscarf weather at the biomarche
The key to French style
The key to French style is to be tasteful, wear clothes that fit, and stick to classics instead of trends. If you want to know how to dress French, you just need a few classics of French style in your closet. To keep it simple, here are 7 Things Parisian women really wear. (Want to know what Parisian women don’t wear? Scroll to the bottom of the post).
French Style Essential 1: A Striped Breton Shirt
It’s impossible to overstate the perfection of a Striped Breton shirt. You can pair it with jeans, skirts, or shorts. You can dress it up or down. The neckline highlights your collarbones. It is utterly classic and utterly French–first introduced as the uniform of the French navy in 1858, later adopted by none other than Coco Chanel.
It’s fair to say I’m obsessed with Bretons. So are true Parisiennes. In Paris, you see the classic striped shirt everywhere. (Oh, the men wear them too!) The first striped Breton I ever bought was in the town of Dinan in Brittany. I’ve bought several over the years since, and the one I keep buying again and again is the classic striped boatneckfrom J.Crew.
Here are my favorite striped Bretons. Both the JCrew and the Boden version are less than $50. The Everlane version is, at the time of this writing, $68.
Best Lightweight Breton: JCrew’s Classic Mariner Boatneck Breton is ligthweight and drapes beautifully. It’s really soft and flattering and makes a pair of jeans look instantly effortless and polished. I buy a new one in black and white every other year and pretty much wear it to death year round.
Best Heavyweight Breton: If you want a thicker version of the Breton, the Everlane modern Breton is perfect. The Everlane Breton is constructed of thick, high-quality knit in a boxy style with a wide boatneck. It’s utterly indestructible, and it’s great for fall and winter, especially under a trench coat. This Breton has the warmth of a sweater with the look of a Breton. I’m still wearing a modern Breton that I bought from Everlane in 2015!
Best Colorful Breton: British brand Boden updates the Breton with its trademark bright, fun colors. The Ella Breton features a modified boatneck–more rounded than its counterparts at JCrew and Everlane.
French Style Essential 2: White Sneakers – especially Stan Smiths or Vejas
Parisian women wear white sneakers with everything–black jeans, blue jeans, wrap dresses, sheath dresses, short skirts, long skirts, black pants, red coats…in Paris, it seems, anything and everything goes with white sneakers. Or baskets, as they say.
Adidas Stan Smiths— white with green trim–are the most popular by far. Yes, the most Parisian shoe on the planet is named after an American tennis star.
Vejas are a French brand, and they’re a little more special, in my opinion. They come in second in terms of popularity in Paris–probably because they’re a little pricier than Stan Smiths. Still, at under $150, they’re a great shoe to own and live in. Marion Cotillard loves these, and I’ve even seen Barack Obama photographed in them. Just as you know Stan Smiths from the trademark green heel cap, you know Vejas from the trademark V on the side.
Classic Paris spring style: white sneakers, midi skirt, photo by Michelle Richmond
I have three pairs of Veja sneakers. I think Vejas make almost any outfit look a little bit cooler. Although Vejas aren’t cushiony, they are comfortable to wear all day. (Note the pair on the far right, which once walked 30,000 steps in a single day after lockdown ended in Paris). And they’re also environmentally friendly. T
There are several styles of Veja sneakers, but I prefer the Veja V-12. It just fits my foot best, and I think it always looks minimalist and classy. The Veja V-12 has a leather upper and a suede heel and logo. It comes in bright white, and you can get the logo in a few different colors. I love the metallic rose, but you really can’t go wrong with any V-12 or the earlier version, the Veja V-10. They’re beautiful, comfortable, and last forever. They’re not always easy to find in the US, but Shopbop has several Veja styles.
Veja V-12 sneakersVeja V-12 with gold & silver trimThese Vejas walked a thousand miles in Paris
True story: When I was walking in San Francisco recently in my Vejas, a woman stopped me and said, “I love your sneakers! Your feet look like little packages!”
Really, any bright white sneakers will do. During my first year in Paris I wore bright white Filas everywhere, and French people are constantly asking me for directions, so I must have looked like I knew my way around.
French Style Essential 3: Small Crossbody Bags
Most Parisians don’t carry a bunch of stuff around in their purses, because they like to look low-maintenance. The desire to appear to be low-maintenance while being totally high-maintenance on the inside may be why Parisian women smoke so much. The purse just has to be big enough to fit your bad habit, your metro card, your phone, and a teeny-tiny Pocket edition of some slender novel with a watercolor cover.
black crossbody bag with chain strap
A crossbody bag is the purse of choice, often with a chain strap. This small black crossbody (pictured above) from Kate Spade would be right at home in Paris. So would this pale pink chain crossbody bag. (Although the Kate Spade website calls it a “wallet,” Parisian women would consider it purse sized! Those gigantic contraptions you find at American department stores? Parisian women would consider those a carry-on for a weekend train trip.) A buttery tan leather crossbody bag works for any season in Paris.
small crossbody bags I purchased in Paris
Personally, I love chain straps because they help a purse to hang well, and it’s pretty and delicate without being over the top.
Most Parisians dress conservatively. They add color through blouses (see below), sweaters, and accessories, so a bag is a great place to invest in color. If you already have a neutral bag you love, you might consider making your next one more colorful. While you won’t see many French women wearing animal print dresses or boldly colored pants or skirts, they’ll wear an animal print bag , red belt, or bold red purse to round out a neutral outfit.
I’ve discovered that carrying tiny bags is quite liberating. Do I need my laptop? No. Do I need a phone charger? No, because Mr. Reluctant P. is very good about putting my phone on the charger every time I take it off, which is about 19 times a day. Do I need a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup, a bag of almonds, a pen, a notebook, and three lipsticks? Well, okay, maybe.
If you’re used to carrying a big bag, it will be an adjustment. You really have to be selective in what you carry with you! You’ll probably need a smaller wallet than you usually carry, just one lipstick, and a very small book.
My tiny leather crossbody bag from Balzac Paris, just big enough for a wallet and a Pocket edition book
French Style Essential 4 – Crewneck Sweaters in Neutral Colors
If you want to dress French for fall or winter, you can’t go wrong with a crewneck sweater. One of the best places to buy high quality crewneck sweaters that look totally Parisian is Everlane. The Everlane cashmere crew is perfection and lasts for years. I took several Everlane sweaters to Paris with me, wore them frequently through two winters, and brought them back home to California, where they still get plenty of use every time the fog rolls in. J.Crew also makes lovely cashmere sweaters in a wide range of colors.
Another French style staple is the cardigan, worn alone or over a camisole. Everlane makes a beautiful, lightweight cardigan in many colors that’s perfect for fall and spring.
This classic cardigan, under $40 on Amazon, is available in several colors and would be right at home in Paris with a pair of jeans or skirt.
If you’ve ever watched Call My Agent, you’ve noticed that Andrea is usually wearing jeans. So is her young protege Camille. French women wear jeans just as much as American women do. The key is what to wear them with. Don’t wear your jeans with a baggy T-shirt. A cool sweatshirt is fine, preferably cropped.
Do wear your jeans with a pretty blouse, a fitted T-shirt and blazer, a cozy sweater or turtleneck, or a cocoon coat. Do wear your jeans with white sneakers, or with a nice pair of ankle boots.
Levis are a big deal in Paris, where the brand is much more expensive there than it is in the US.Straight cropped Levis with booties are a classic Parisian look. So are basic slim jeans with a nice cardigan or turtleneck tucked in.
Another great choice for jeans, especially if you’re curvy, is Everlane. When I’m not in a dress, I live in Everlane jeans. They have a super high waist and are made of really high-quality denim.
Of course, jeans always look great with a Striped Breton!
Try slim jeans from Levi’s for classic French style
French Style Essential 6 – Casual Dresses in Small Prints
the author in a dress purchased in the Batignollesneighborhood of Paris
I already owned a closet full of dresses before moving to Paris. This included several wrap dresses, a Parisian staple. However, Parisians favor more loose-fitting wraps, often with a small floral print, much less business-like than the iconic Diane von Furstenberg wraps, more romantic. Wraps, and really any kind of fluid, loose-fitting dresses, are especially popular in summer. One thing you don’t really see much in Paris is boho style dresses.
While living in Paris, I purchased dresses during the soldes (the big sales that happen twice a year) from Ba&sh, Maje, and Sandro. These are all French brands that are special, chic, and beloved by French girls. Although they’re not inexpensive, if you shop in the Parisian way (quality over quantity), they won’t break the bank. Other terrific French brands are The Kooples, Rouje, and Sezane.
colorful dresses I brought home from Paris
Other Stories on Rue Faubourg has some great dresses, and I love their sales. I brought home several with me from Paris. But you don’t have to go to Paris to dress like a Parisian.
Although Boden in a British brand, it carries some lovely shirt dresses, a classic of French style.
Keep it simple: jeans and a black topa dress I bought from a Parisian street stalla winter coat I purchased at Gerard Darel
Another great American brand for French-style dresses is Kate Spade, which makes dresses in pretty patterns and flattering shapes. One dress I took with me to Paris was a knee-length silk Kate Spade wrap dress in black and white. It’s no longer for sale, but the Kate Spade silk-blend shirt dress is perfection.
When we lived in Paris, there was a tiny shop right by the secret square (I forget the name), where I used to go every few months. I would always find one special item there–a dress, a bag, a scarf–at a very reasonable price. One day maybe I’ll remember the name. But the next time I go back to Paris I’ll definitely be stopping by.
That’s the thing about French style: it’s timeless, not trendy. The focus is on quality, not quantity.
hot chocolate in a silk dress at Angelina
As it happens, I brought this the floral silk dress pictured from home, just so I could spill hot chocolate on it at the iconic Angelina on Rue de Rivoli. I’ve had it forever. I never realize how long I’ve had my clothes until I’m going back through old photos and realize I was wearing them when my son was a toddler (he’s a teenager now). But that’s the thing about French style: it’s timeless, not trendy. The focus is on quality, not quantity. If you buy a dress today and can still feel confident wearing it in ten years, that’s French!
The Parisian dress silhouette: The key is to buy flattering cuts in classic, tasteful shapes. A cinched waist with a V-neck and a loose, fluid drape is a really popular silhouette.
By the way, when you look for dresses, don’t stick with solids! Parisian women love to wear florals–especially floral dresses and floral blouses. (But let’s not go crazy: you rarely see floral pants or a floral coat in Paris). The idea is to keep the pattern small. Anything by Trina Turk would stand out like a sore thumb (and not in a good way) in Paris.
French Style Essential 7 – Feminine Blouses in Floral Prints or Solids
It’s simply not true that French women only wear black. A colorful printed blouse with high-waisted jeans or a skirt is a mainstay of Parisian style. You should also have a white blouse in your wardrobe. Joie, a Euro-centric clothing brand, makes a perfect short-sleeved white silk blouse. These style staples would last many seasons without every going out of style.
This lady I spotted n the Marais happened to be wearing a frilly white blouse, but she added a colorful scarf and hat that say, “Hello!” There’s actually a lot more going on here than you would usually see on a Parisian, but I dig it. (See the tiny purse and absence of jewelry? Very French!)
CeCeLady in the MaraisAnthropologie
Oh, and one more French Style Essential: Scarves!
The moment the temperature drops below a balmy 75 degrees Fahrenheit (don’t ask me what that is in Celcius, I still haven’t mastered the art of translating the temperature), the scarves come out. And then the scarves stay–all through fall, winter, and spring.
Even on sunny spring days, when you’ve removed all but your base layer and are starting to sweat through your Stan Smiths, they wrap their necks up in thick scarves. Either they’re terrified of being chilly, they don’t like their necks (I don’t think that’s it), or they simply cannot imagine going a moment without a scarf. You know how you feel about underwear–like, you can’t leave home without it? That’s the way Parisian women feel about scarves.
Kate spade has a lovely selection of silk scarves for spring and summer. For truly cold days, the Everlane waffle-knit scarf is made of a super-soft, chunky wool that will keep the chill out. Parisian women wear their winter scarves wound up like armor high around their necks, usually with their har tucked underneath.
Some scarves are bigger than other scarves. Snapped this well-coordinated couple on a not-that-cold day in Paris.
One of the scarves I wore most often in Paris is one bought nearly a decade ago on Gilt, a pink silk Alexander McQueen skull scarf. As you can see from the photos below, I never really learned how to tie my silk scarf. It is not as easy as French women make it look!
(In this photo, by the way, I’m with my writer friend Cara Black, author of the Aimee Leduc detective series, which begins with Murder in the Marais and covers every Paris arrondissement. Check it out before you come to Paris, and be sure to read the one set in the arrondissement where you’re staying!)
My other favorite scarf is a red wool plaid scarf I bought at WH Smith (yes, the bookstore) on Rue de Rivoli one day when I underestimated how much the temperature could drop between our apartment and Mr. Reluctant P.’s workplace. We ducked into the WH Smith to have their cafe gourmand (the single best French invention, ever–an espresso & three tiny desserts) at the tea room upstairs, which, thank God, also serves coffee, albeit excruciatingly tiny coffee. There were British ladies in the tea room saying things like, “I think I’ll just have a spot of Earl Gray and some crumpets,” so we stayed longer than we needed to, because nobody ever says crumpets anymore and it all felt very Downton Abbey.
Just outside the tea room I saw a display of scarves made of Scottish wool, which made us both think of a trip Mr. Reluctant P. and I made to Scotland in January 17 years ago, a trip so cold I actually stood in a phone booth on an empty road somewhere in the Orkney Islands begging Icelandair to let us come back to Iceland, because I couldn’t take another moment of the Scotland winter. I bought the scarf and have used it many times, partially because it’s warm but also because it reminds me nostalgically of a place I once went to that I could easily escape, unlike Paris.
Parisian women don’t wear…
Anything over-the-top, too tight, sparkly, gaudy, or studded, is so not French. Basically, if Emily in Emily in Paris would wear it, it’s definitely not French! If Andrea, the tough, sexy talent agent on Call My Agent would wear it, it’s très français. Another great, accurate representation of youthful French style on Netflix is The Hook Up Plan.
French women tend to be both frugal and tasteful, which is why you probably won’t see them toting a giant Louis Vuitton bag. (Vintage Chanel on the other hand? Definitely!) They invest in core pieces. They may only own five blouses, for example, but at least one of them will be silk, and one will be a striped Breton.
A Note on Skirts, Parisian Style
Parisian women don’t wear anything exceedingly tight, and they don’t often do low-cut. They show legs, not cleavage. The one place they show skin is the mid-thigh and downward. Short skirts are everywhere, and it doesn’t seem to have anything to do with the weather. Rain, hail, sleet, and snow do nothing to raise the hemlines. As long as your sweater or blouse is tasteful and your shoes aren’t stilettos, you can wear micro-skirts until the cows come home and fit right in.
It’s also worth noting that short skirts are considered age-appropriate for women of all ages in Paris, as long as they have the legs for it! With all that walking they do, many Parisian women can rock a mini-skirt well into their sixties. You’ll see more older women in mini-skirts in the fall and winter, when they can wear tights. Really, in Paris, it’s all about being tasteful, showing your body in its best light.
And One French Style Surprise – Black and Navy
Maybe your mother told you black and navy don’t go together. Clearly, she wasn’t French.
For Parisians, black and navy do go together. I used to think they didn’t, but then I lived in Paris, and now I’ve embraced the combination wholeheartedly. Not even Mr. Reluctant P. can dissuade me.
In Paris, these two neutrals are made for each other. Navy blazers with black jeans, black sweaters with navy skirts, navy chaussettes with black chaussures…it’s all fine. In America, if you wear navy on black, people assume you got dressed in the dark. In Paris, if you wear navy on black, people assume you understand the subtleties of color theory.
So that’s it–seven things French women really wear. If you want to dress like a Parisian, keep it simple!
Want more posts like this? I retired The Reluctant Parisian when I moved back home to California, but I still share Paris Stories at The Wandering Writer. And I’m serializing a Paris novel here.
I’m the author of six novels.
The most recent is THE WONDER TEST, which I finished while living in Paris. (The next Lina Connerly adventure will be set in Paris.) Most of by books have been translated into French, including THE MARRIAGE PACT, which is is available in 31 languages and published in France as Piege Conjugal. The Year of Fog, published way back in 2007, was a major bestseller in France as l’annee brouillard and a finalist for Elle Prix des Lectrices.
Ah, the much-longed-for Paris baguette. It’s one thing about Paris that lives up to the hype.
Bread in Paris is usually good, it’s always inexpensive, and it’s the easiest way to refuel between 2:30 p.m. and 7:30 p.m, when most restaurants are closed. You’ll find a boulangerie on every corner. Also, the word boulangerie is really fun to say, even if you don’t pronounce it quite right (guilty as charged).
There are many types of bread at Parisian boulangeries, of course, and there are several types of baguettes. If you want to get fancy, check out David Leibovitz on bread. And here’s what he has to say about my favorite Paris baguette, the tradition:
A Baguette tradition, Baguette à l’ancienne, or Baguette de campagne are names given to baguettes that are mixed, hand-formed (you can tell by the pointy ends and irregularities in the loaves), and baked on the premises, and usually have levain (sourdough) starter in them.
I prefer baguette tradition to the regular baguette, which the French call baguette ordinarie, or just, you know, baguette and which is, in my mind, quite ordinary. The tradition is chewier and denser. The ordinaire is sort of fluffy on the inside, and whiter. I do buy the regular baguettes for my son’s school sandwiches, because a)I buy it the afternoon before so I can make his sandwich in the morning, and the ordinaire retains its softness better overnight, and b) the hard crust on the tradition can make eating it in sandwich form kind of unpleasant on the roof of the mouth.
Words to know: bonjour madame, une tradition, s’il vous plait, bien cuit, c’est tout, and merci.
Carrie Anne of French is Beautiful, who has lived in Paris a lot longer than I have and who happens to teach French, did a write-up on the subject of ordering bread in French for Everyday Parisian. In her post, Carrie Anne explains some of the finer points of the feminine and masculine as they relate to bread.
And now, for the (totally opinionated) video. Here’s how order a baguette in Paris, even if your French is terrible and you can’t tell your Euros from the pounds you just picked up at Heathrow on your way to Paris. In this video, I tell you how to order my favorite stand-by, baguette tradition.
The first time we visited a fromagerie in Paris with Young Reluctant P, he proclaimed loudly, “Why don’t they have any American cheese?” I’m pretty sure this is a punishable offense in France. If it weren’t for the diplomatic visa, he’d probably be serving time in French juvie for the crime of Disrespecting the Cheese. So a few days ago, when Mr. Reluctant P and I wanted some cheese to go with our baguettetradition, we headed off to a fromagerie in our neighborhood. I’d done my research and knew this was a place we might want to visit again, so I was nervous. One thing you most definitely should not do in Paris is offend people from whom you might want to buy food on a regular basis.
I should mention that, while I can sometimes express my needs in French in very simple exchanges, I can’t understand a word anyone says to me, with the exception of Voila! and C’est vrai! and Quarante-cinq! For some reason, quarante-cinq is the only number that has stuck in my mind. As long as whatever I’m buying costs precisely 45 euros, I’m golden, but if it’s a centime less or more, which, of course, it almost always is, I stand there and squint at the cash register, willing the numbers to pop up on the screen. If they don’t, I have to resort to handing the cashier one or two or three of those lovely pastel euro notes, hoping the notes are sufficient and the cashier is honest. If it’s a small transaction, I’ll hold out my palm with a few coins in it, expecting them to understand the universal gesture for, “Please take however much money I owe you out of my hand, and do it quickly so that everyone in line behind me does not realize that I am a grown-ass woman who cannot count change, and we’ll both forget this ever happened.” (Or I use my credit card…one day we’ll talk about those tiny credit machines and the difference between patientez and retirez.)
Usually, after I’ve made my request but before the exchanging of money, I say d’accord and vrai and oui a lot (the latter pronounced way rather than wii, if you want to sound really Parisian) and try to get out the door before they can engage me in a real conversation. If I’m with Mr. Reluctant P., I just hope he nods and doesn’t open his mouth except to whisper translations into my ear. He is brilliant at understanding French, but he speaks it like a red-blooded American male, which is to say he says “bonjour” as if it’s a hammer he’s throwing at your head.
So when we ventured into the fromagerie, I asked the cheese lady in French what she would recommend. She asked if I wanted vache (cow) or chèvre (goat). I tried to look pensive, tapping my fingertip on my jaw in what I hoped was a pensive French way, and said, Je pense, qu’aujourd’hui, peut-etre vache(I think, today, perhaps cow.) I don’t know why, but ever since French class with Miss Truly in 10th grade at Murphy High School in Mobile, Alabama, I have loved the phrase je pense que–I think that. I’d say it every day if I could, a hundred times a day, with apostrophes whenever possible. Je pense qu’il fait beau, je pense qu’elles mangent du beurre, Je pense que je sonne très français quand je dis que “je pense.”
Anyway, the cheese lady replied in rapid French, at which point I stood there looking confused and probably slightly in pain, while Mr. Reluctant P looked at the cookies; of course, there was one box of cookies in the store and he had found it and needed to examine it, while I suffered, lost in translation only a few feet away. I reluctantly admitted to the cheese lady, as I do many times each day, Desole, Je ne parle pas vraiment Francais, (Sorry, I don’t really speak French), to which the woman actually replied, “Mais non! Your French is very good!” As that was the first time in my quarante-something years anyone had told me anything of the sort, I inwardly wept tears of joy until I realized she was probably just having a bit of fun at my expense.
After I picked myself up off the floor, I bought the truffle cheese they make in-house, even though Mr. Reluctant P hates truffles, because I figured I’d gotten in the cheese lady’s good graces, and I wanted to stay there. And then because I was feeling the joy of this exchange, the sheer wonderful Frenchness of it, I asked what wine she would recommend to go with the cheese, and she pointed to the most expensive bottle, which was not very expensive but was still a good indication she thought I was a tourist. The whole thing came to quarante-something, but I wasn’t sure quarante-what, so I looked at my husband, who had at last moved on from the cookies, as if to say, I’m just a little lady, my husband is the one who handles the money, because when French is involved my dignity totally flies out the window, and sometimes my feminism with it.
The cheese lady wanted to keep talking after we paid, which was fine by me, because You Should Always Have a Cheese Lady Who Is Your Friend. She asked where we were from. “San Francisco,” I said, which is what I always say, because it is easier to say, “San Francisco” than to say “a small town south of San Francisco,” and also because in Europe, saying that you’re from San Francisco is like saying, “I’m from America but it’s okay to like me anyway. I totally believe in the Paris Climate Accord. Can’t we still be friends?” And I added, “Maintenant, nous habitons ici.” Which is like saying, I know I’m not one of you but I am trying and I will be back here next week with more euros!
Well, it turned out that the woman’s nephew had moved to San Francisco recently and loves it, as Europeans often do. I’ve also discovered that, if you’re not acting like a jerk, people may be surprised to discover you’re from America. Sorry, but it’s true. Just as Americans have stereotypes about Parisians, Parisians have stereotypes about Americans, and you should do your best, when in Paris, not to live down to those stereotypes. People in Paris have asked me if I’m Russian or Polish, and they’ve asked me if I’m German or British (not that they particularly like the Brits, mind you), but in our five weeks in Paris, not once has anyone asked if I was American–oh, wait, except that time with the apple man. Let’s not talk about that time with the apple man. When I reply, “Je suis Americaine,” there is that slight disapproving raising of the eyebrows (or am I just imagining the disapproval? The French can be quite difficult to read), which I follow with, “J’habite a San Francisco!”
“Ah!” they say. “I love San Francisco!” Sometimes they love it because they have been there, but more often they love it because someone they know has been there, or they want to go there, or because Europeans have positive pre-conceived notions about San Francisco just as surely as Americans have positive pre-conveived notions about Paris. I do not tell them about the Tenderloin or the needles or the fact that ten different people will find ten different reasons to give you the stink-eye while you’re waiting in line for ice cream outside of Bi-Rite, reasons ranging from the political (your shoes are leather instead of vegan leather) to the personal (your child looks so gentrified with that haircut). And I especially don’t tell them about that guy who sometimes hangs out at the 16th and Mission Muni station with a machete.
I just say, Oh, oui, San Francisco est tres belle! J’adore San Francisco! Both statements are true, but neither is complete. And then I go home and eat my truffle cheese and drink my wine and say to Mr. Reluctant P, Je pense que ce fromage de vache est très agréable, Je pense que je vais manger le tout, while, from deep in the apartment, Young Reluctant P calls out, “Did you bring me any American cheese?”
Parisians take their pharmacies seriously. This is not a place to grab a magazine or an inexpensive tube of lipstick or a Twix bar or a Swiffer or whatever you forgot to pick up at the grocery store. Pharmacies in France focus on dispensing medicine, skin care advice, and beauty products, not necessarily in that order. (Also, umbrellas. The moment the rains appear, so do les parapluies, at the checkout counter of every pharmacy in Paris.)
In the final throes of packing for our move, hours before we were supposed to leave for the airport, my suitcase wouldn’t zip. I had to choose: the Nespresso pods and the power adapters, or the toiletries and cosmetics? I chose poorly, mes amies. My first morning in Paris, I realized I had no Nespresso machine for the pods, very few outlets for the adapters, and no moisturizer, shampoo, nail polish remover, deodorant, or soap. So I searched for pharmacies on my phone and found three nearby. The first pharmacy I walked by was closed. The second was the size of a closet. The third was bigger (about 750 square feet) and looked more promising. Did I go in? I did not.
Have you ever done a party drive-by? You know the drill: there’s a party to which you’ve been invited, and which you plan to attend, but when you drive by the party you just can’t bring yourself to go in. When you see the lights on inside, the people milling about, you think about what the party will require: the small talk, the remembering of names, the polite conversations about various kinds of sports-ball. You imagine walking through the party, ending up alone by the food table, struggling with the cheese platter. Eventually, having had your fill of tiny things on toothpicks, with no trash can in sight, you will start stuffing toothpicks down your bra, and that never ends well. So you don’t go in.
This is what happened at the pharmacy. Well, not exactly that. On the first day, I walked by briskly, as though the pharmacy was not even on my mind and I could not be bothered to glance in. On the second day, I walked by slowly, peering in through the open door. On the third day, I gathered my nerve and went it. By this point I had no choice. I’d been bathing with dish soap and using my son’s deodorant, which is marketed to teenaged boys and promisingly called Swagger, and I was tired of smelling like clean dishes and a young man who, you know, swaggers.
As I began shyly browsing the shelves, a beautiful woman on a ladder looked down at me and asked me something in French. I think she was asking if she could help, so I proceeded to tell her in broken French that I needed moisturizer. “Anglais?” she replied.
“Oui, desole.”( In Paris, I find myself constantly apologizing for not speaking the language, but I’ve also found that people are incredibly nice if you just make a bit of effort. You’ve heard it before, but I’ve really found it to be true: no one seems to mind if you can’t speak French, as long as you know enough words to get the conversation started, and as long as you try.)
“Anti-age?” she asked. She said it in such a helpful, genuine way. Imagine Sephora, and then imagine the opposite. You know how, at Sephora, you go in to buy a tube of mascara and the sales associate greets you with, “You must be looking for something for redness, fine lines, dry hair, large pores, deep wrinkles, dullness, and general bad attitude? Come with me.” And you walk out $300 poorer with a clownish makeover and a sack full of products you’ll never use, many of them involving sponges and complicated spray nozzles that always spray in the wrong direction.
No, this was the opposite. The beautiful French woman came down from the ladder and started to show me products she thought I might enjoy. She had me sample them. She had me smell them. She asked a lot of questions I couldn’t understand, and I replied with weird, mostly irrelevant hand gestures that do not translate in any language. Occasionally I said, “Oui!” or “Vraiment!” just to show I was trying. She was in no hurry. Even though she’d been busily stocking shelves when I arrived, she appeared to have all the time in the world to devote to me. She began with Caudalie and worked her way up. When we got to a pretty little glass jar that cost 178 euros, I whispered, “Je pense, peut-être, trop cher,” and we went back to the Caudalie.*
Of course, I set off alarms as I was leaving the store. I seem to do this everywhere I go, in both America and Paris. The clerk waved me back in and went through my bag and noticed she’d forgotten to take the plastic tag off of one of my purchases. She laughed and sent me on my way. When I went back a few days later, the same thing happened. I’d think it was a French conspiracy, except that I recently bought a pair of jeans online from Madewell back home, and the jeans arrived with the big plastic tag still attached to the waistband. Plastic retail tags find me. They stay with me. I can’t explain it.
*Culture tip: According to indispensable guide to French language and culture, The Bonjour Effect, French people love to complain about the cost of things. It’s accepted and sometimes even expected to try to find bargains, and okay to talk about it, because being flashy and ostentatious is considered bad taste. Quality shoes? Definitely. A small Chanel handbag? Certainly. A handbag emblazoned with logos, especially the LV so ubiquitous in America? Non! (In upscale Paris neighborhoods, only tourists carry Louis Vuitton bags, although you’ll see a lot of them at Paris Disney, which I totallydo not admit visiting). Our Uber driver on the way to Costco (which I also do not admit visiting in search of an air conditioner) excitedly told us about La Vallée Village, an outlet mall near Paris, where one can find back-to-school clothing at fifty percent off, “because in France everyone has this problem,” he said, the problem being finding reasonably priced kids’ clothing.
And now, for the promotional part of the post (stop reading if you’re not into cosmetics…)
Here’s what I snagged at the pharmacy (in addition to un parapluie). You’ll find many of these products mentioned in any article about classic French beauty brands. One thing I love about French beauty brands is that the EU has tighter regulations about what chemicals can go into cosmetics, so the products tend to be more environmentally friendly and made with natural ingredients. They also have less fragrance, so you don’t walk out of your house in the morning smelling like you slept on a bed of bad potpourri (then again, is there a difference between good potpourri and bad potpourri?)
Caudalie night infusion cream/ Resveratrol creme cache mire redensifiante – This is an overnight cream with resveratrol. It felt richer than my usual retinol cream and didn’t irritate my skin. When I woke up the next morning my skin really did look different–a bit glowy and rested. It could be the cream, or it could be that I finally had a decent night’s sleep. At any rate, I expect I’ll continue using it, because my husband, who is allergic to just about everything, didn’t start sneezing.
Nuxe dry oil / Nuxe Huile Prodigieuse – I had to toss my Moroccan Argan oil on the day we left California, so I was delighted to find this inexpensive oil that can be used on hair, skin, and cuticles. I always add a few drops of oil to my body moisturizer morning and night, and Nuxe will be my new go-to. The first time I used it, I went for a walk in the park later in the day and noticed a wonderful, light scent. I thought it was something in the park, but then I realized that the scent followed me out of the park and all the way home. That’s when I realized it was the Nuxe oil. The air in Paris has been extremely dry, so I rub a couple of drops into the ends of my hair after washing. Price: 14 euros for 1.6 oz. In the US: $38 for 3.3 oz on Amazon
Bioderma Créaline H2O Solution Micellaire – I first started noticing ads for micellar cleansing pads in the U.S. last year. I bought some and was unimpressed. A 500 ml bottle of this cleansing water that every French beauty blog praises was about 8 euros. You just soak a cotton pad with the fragrance-free solution and then press it against your eyelids to remove eye makeup (although you won’t be wearing much eye make-up in France–more on that in another post). Swab it over your face to remove makeup and dirt. That’s all the cleanser you need before applying your moisturizer. If you’re in the U.S., you can find an impressive range of Bioderma products at Walmart. Price 9 euros per bottle, or in the US, about $18 per bottle at Walmart or $14.90 per bottle at Amazon.
Bioderma Serum / Bioderma Hydrabio – Sérum concentré hydratant – I’d been using Boots No. 7 serum for years. Although I first discovered it on a trip to the UK, it’s available in the U.S. at Target and Walgreens. It goes on silky smooth and is very light. My Boots went in the trash with my moroccan argan oil, so I wanted an inexpensive new serum to get me by until I figure out what French products work best for me. The pharmacist recommended Bioderma, and I’ll be sticking with this one. It’s light, silky, and has no noticeable scent. On days when you don’t need sunscreen, this serum is all you need for moisturizer. Price 13 euros In the US $24 on Amazon or $59 for two, at Walmart
Klorane shampooing nutritive et reparateur / Klorane shampoo – I’ve seen Klorane shampoo mentioned everywhere, so I decided to try it. Klorane shampoo comes in several different formulas for different hair types. Living on the Bay Area peninsula, surrounded on three sides by water, accustomed to the fog, I’d forgotten how hard dry air is on the hair. I also bought the corresponding Klorane conditioner. Price 11 euros each In the US $20 per bottle on Amazon or $15 per bottle at Walmart
Klorane dry shampoo – I’m a big fan of dry shampoos and have been using Amika dry shampoo ever since I discovered it through Birchbox about three years ago. Vogue editors and other American beauty magazines frequently recommend Klorane dry shampoo, so I thought I’d give it a try. I didn’t bring a blow dryer to France with me because mine wouldn’t work with French outlets, and I haven’t bothered to buy one yet. Anyway, in Paris, the preferred look for hair is always natural–nothing over-styled, sprayed, bleached, or obviously blown out. Since I don’t want to wait for my hair to dry in the morning before I go out, I wash it before bed and then spritz a little dry shampoo on the roots in the morning. This gives you a tousled, natural look (at least, that’s what I’m telling myself). By the by, I remember when U.S. magazines used to talk about “French hair,” as if it French women obtained magically sexy hair by washing it only once or twice a week. That’s a myth. Parisian women don’t walk around with dirty hair! The look is undone, not unwashed. Klorane does the trick: it’s has a fresh, light scent and disappears instantly. Price: 16 euros. In the US: $20 on Amazon
If you’re visiting Paris, skip it or try it? Yes, I’d definitely recommend a trip to a French pharmacy. It only takes a few minutes, and it’s an easy way to experience a slice of everyday French life and bring home something you’ll actually use. Consumables make the best souvenirs.
Alice’s Blue Polka Dot dress with straw hat and red sandals
I’ve recently become addicted to the scripted streaming series Alice in Paris, a delightful short-form show in which a young Parisian woman wanders the streets of her city, sharing her adventures in food, her favorite hideaways, and more. Each episode is only a couple of minutes, so only a day after I’d discovered it, I’d already watched 23 episodes. The series is free on Amazon with your prime membership.
While the episodes center on Alice’s adventures in food, her bright, fun outfits are a delight. I decided to recreate Alice in Paris outfits using (mostly)budget-friendly options. So, here you have it: How to dress like Alice in Paris.
We’ll start with an item that might not make your list of staples, but is such a perfect base layer that I can see how it might become one. In fact, I bought a navy blue dress with white polka dots for a book launch last summer, and I ended up wearing it through the fall and have now revived it for spring. It goes with pretty much anything–leather jacket, suede booties, red heels, sneakers, trench coat. Polka dots might even be considered a “neutral pattern,” if such a thing exists, because as long as they’re worn in the proper scale, they don’t overwhelm.
Season 1, Episode 18
Blue dress with white polka dots, paired with straw hat, sandals, and neutral shoulder bag
Alice loves polka dots! She wears some combination of polka dots in many episodes. Here she is in the blue polka-dot dress from Season 1, Episode 18. She pairs it with red sandals and a straw hat with black trim.
And here are my budget-friendly alternatives to help you dress like a Parisian, ranging from $29 to $190:
Don’t forget the sandals, or, if the weather isn’t quite right for sandals, a classic pair of flats! I love Boden shoes, which are always high-quality and fun. Red sandals add a pop of color to a neutral outfit and are a great way to try red without overwhelming your outfit. I’ve included a thong sandal, a strappy red patent leather sandal, and a super walkable slide.
And I would be remiss not to mention red ballet flats, a French style staple to wear with jeans or a summer dress. J.Crew makes beautiful, high-quality ballet flats that will last many seasons.
And finally, the handbag.
Alice pairs her blue polka dots with a blush pink shoulderbag. I love how fresh the look is, and I happen to have a wonderful old pale pink Kate Spade bag that looks a lot like hers, but here’s a cute version, big enough for a wallet and book, small enough to look French.
Finally, Alice often tops her dresses and T-shirts with lightweight cardigans. Here is the perfect red cashmere cardigan, once again from J.Crew (can you tell I’m a fan?)
And finally, here I am in my favorite (and only) blue polka dot dress, which I wore for the book launch of The Marriage Pact in San Francisco last summer. As you might have guessed, it’s from Boden! (Sorry, this one is sold out, but The Marriage Pact is available in English and French, and 28 other languages!)
All week, my husband has been in Paris without me. This is not unusual for our family, as his job takes him to Paris frequently, and someone has to hold down the home front. The only difference about today is that it is Valentine’s Day. So, yes, my husband is in Paris without me on Valentine’s Day, although I am consoled by the fact that it is cold and miserable there and beautiful here, which is often the case. And he did hide a gift for me to commemorate the day, which I found this morning, and the thing he left is exactly what I wanted without knowing I wanted it.
Come summer, we’ll be closing up shop in the Bay Area and moving to Paris. Which means I notice French things more than usual these days. Or, sometimes, Frenchness finds me.
Take, for example, yesterday in Safeway. I was in the personal care aisle, looking for shampoo, when I was approached by a woman in a perfectly tailored black skirt, black heels, and leather jacket. It was an unusually cold day on the Peninsula, and everyone else was wearing jeans.
“Please, can you help me?” the woman said in a pronounced French accent. She was holding some sort of lip balm, by a brand I’ve never heard of. Very pink. “I come here, I just need tiny thing for–” she pointed at her lips–“you know, and I find only this.”
She looked at the lip balm as if it was an affront to humanity.
“Lips?” I said.
“Yes! I need something for the lips! But I am too French, see!”
I did not see. Is that a thing, I wondered? Too French? What exactly does it mean to be too French?
Then she explained, sort of. “Everything in America is so big!” she lamented. Which I took to mean that to be “too French” means to be precisely the correct amount of French, and to like small things. Small and exquisite, as my sister-in-law Erin would say. Erin is Irish by birth but French at heart.
I agreed with the lady that it was indeed a very large lip balm. “Maybe you want chapstick?” I said.
“Yes! Like that!” she replied.
I led her to the travel section of the aisle, where we found tiny shampoo, tiny soap, tiny hand sanitizer, but alas, no tiny lip balm.
“Sorry,” I said, even though what I really wanted to say was “je regrette” or maybe “desole.” I couldn’t remember which word would convey the proper sentiment, or if either of them would convey the proper sentiment. Anyway, I’m too nervous to practice my French on actual French people, because the moment I try to speak French I immediately identify myself as too American.
I wanted her to know that I appreciated her country, where grocery stores do not have such big aisles with such big lip balm. So I said, “We’re moving to Paris in June.”
“We go to Paris in June,” she replied sadly. “It has been five years.” It was not the response I was expecting. I guess I expected her to say, “Oh, you will love it!” or something to that effect.
“When did you move here?” I asked, before remembering that, to the French, this might considered a very personal question, not something to be asked of a stranger. She was probably accustomed by now to that too-American trait of inquisitiveness, so she responded,”Four years here, but first three years in Philadelphia.”
I wanted to say, “J’espere que vous trouvez le chapstick,” but even though I think it means “I hope you find the chapstick,” it probably means something entirely different, possibly something obscene, so instead I said, “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to help you.”
We parted ways, tiny lip balm unfound. Minutes later I saw her exiting the store with little daughter, who looked very French, wearing a coat like Madeline from the Ludwig Bemelmans books, and her husband, who was narrow and fit and dressed all in black, and who therefore looked exactly like a thousand other Silicon Valley husbands.
By the time I got to my car, I had already decided the French lady was on reconnaissance, that “Everything in America is too big” was some kind of code, and that I had failed an important test. This is one of the hazards of being married to the man I have been married to for seventeen years. At times, the complex mysteries of his unusual job seep into my exceedingly ordinary life. How many times, in foreign countries, have we had the feeling we were being watched?
Of course, the lady in Safeway really was just a lady in Safeway, with her darling daughter and her Silicon Valley husband, and she really did just want chapstick, which she never found. Of that I am certain. Of many things I am not.
And so we prepare for our move to Paris–where we will probably be too American, but where, in the course of three years, we will strive, daily, to become just a little bit French.
image courtesy of Les Anderson via unsplash
Related reading: learn all about Ludwig Bemelmans and other French writers in the new novel Paris by the Book, by Liam Callahan, forthcoming from Dutton.
Coco Chanel famously advised women to cultivate nonchalance. One doesn’t want to appear to be trying too hard. This goes for your home, too. While a home should be beautiful to your eye, it doesn’t need to be perfect. In fact, striving for perfection makes it difficult to enjoy a home–both for inhabitants and for visitors. When I was growing up, I always disliked those friends’ homes where there was one white room we weren’t supposed to touch. There is something so cold about sofas that children aren’t allowed to sit on and coffee tables no one dares set a drink on. Don’t get me started on glass tables, which are both ugly and uninviting. Who wants to eat on cold, hard glass, with a view of your own legs and everybody’s feet?
There is much to be said for a well-loved coffee table. We bought this table about seven years ago. For a short time, I tried to encourage the use of coasters, but then I discovered everyone is more comfortable if I say, “Oh, don’t worry, you can set it right down.” And I don’t mind the rings in the wood. I think they give it character and make it seem welcoming. (I’m not against coasters all the time, by the way. We do have a side table with a wood veneer. I always keep a magazine on it so I can set a hot coffee cup on the table without ruining the top. If you have a beautiful antique that would easily be ruined, just be sure there are coasters on it when you have guests; they’ll get the hint.)
Here are five random but useful French phrases that will fit plenty of situations. This is assuming you already know how to do standard greetings, order from a menu, and ask where the bathroom is.
To start your day and get stuff done: J’ai besoin de mon cafe.Translation: I need my coffee.
To get out of a social engagement: Encore une fois. Translation: Another time.
To keep your head at a business lunch (or on a date) without seeming like a boring American teetotaler: Pas trop de vin, juste une larme, s’il vous plait. Translation: Not too much wine, just a drop, please.
What to say when you don’t know what to say (because it is almost always fitting): Je dois acheter du pain. Translation: I need to buy some bread.
What to say when you just don’t get it: Pourriez-vous parler moins vite s’il vous plaît? Translation: Can you speak more slowly please?
L’appart: The Delights and Disasters of Making My Paris Home, by David Lebovitz
As charming as it is informative, L’appart (buy on Indiebound) offers a chef’s eye view of the beauty and bureaucratic madness that is France.
After moving from San Francisco to Paris, Lebovitz spent a decade living in a tiny top-floor flat with a magnificent view of the City of Light. When he finally decided to buy his own place, he had no idea what he was in for. In this fresh, funny memoir, sprinkled with insider knowledge about Paris life (sales only happen twice a year, for example, and baguettes always come wrapped in tiny paper “because excess is ground upon in France”), Lebovitz chronicles his attempt to buy and remodel a Paris apartment amidst miles of red tape and misunderstandings. Each chapter ends with a recipe, which, for the culinarily untalented among us, may prove as daunting as dealing with the Parisian real estate agents and electricians. Even if you can’t imagine pulling off a pain perdu caramelise, you’ll be happy to learn that pain perdu got its name because it “takes lost (perdu) bread and turns it around, making it something marvelous.”
Leibovitz’s love of his adopted city, as well as his passion for the bounty of the Parisian marche, comes through loud and clear. An utter delight.
Don’t let the title and the silly cover deter you. La Seduction is a highly informative examination of French culture from the perspective of the former Paris bureau chief for The New York Times. In this thoroughly researched book, Sciolino dives deep into French history to explain how and why seduction is as much an intellectual pursuit as a carnal one. From food to fragrance to politics, Sciolino argues, seduction is deeply ingrained in the French way of looking at the world. Although the narrative at times feels forced to meet the theme, there is much to learn from Sciolino’s interviews with politicians, executives, farmers, perfumiers, fashion icons, and chefs.
A practical primer on what to say and when to say it, The Bonjour Effect should be required reading for American expats in France. You can’t play the game of life in France if you don’t know the code. Read this book with a highlighter in hand, and commit its “rules” to memory. The main takeaway is that you should say “Bonjour” liberally: to the butcher, the baker, the roomful of people in the waiting room of the dentist’s office. To fail to “bonjour” anyone in the service industry or groups of people in a closed space–such as an elevator–is a grave error that will instantly mark you as uncouth. To fail to say bonjour is to fail to recognize the equality of those around you. When in doubt, say “bonjour.”
Qu’est-ce que tu penses? Please share your recommendations for reading about all things French in the comments.
L’appart: The Delights and Disasters of Making My Paris Home, by David Lebovitz
