Bonjour! I hope you are well and safe, finding a way to navigate your shelter-in-place orders. Here in Paris, we’re on Day 14 (or is it 13? of lockdown. Our lockdown has been extended to at least April 15th. My family and I are healthy and doing well.
Paris is silent and still. A few joggers are out on the streets, a few solo shoppers with groceries. Ambulances race down the wide boulevards, sirens off. There is no need for sirens when the streets are empty. At 8 pm we go on our balconies to applaud. Against the tasteful monotony of the Haussmann facades, I spotted a colorful sign of thanks – “Merci aux soignants” – “thanks to the caregivers.”
We’re allowed to leave our apartment once a day for up to an hour to do grocery shopping or exercise. We can go up to a kilometer from our home. Our leash happens to end right at Arc de Triomphe. Anyone who has visited Paris may be able to imagine how strange it is to see L’Etoile and Champs Elysees abandoned and nearly silent.
Two days ago, on my morning run, a movement in an upper window caught my eye. It was a hand, moving the curtains aside. The movement drew my eyes to the sky above the building, where the clouds were moving swiftly past. In the strange silence, absent the usual hum of tires on the cobblestone street, the clanging of the flagpole on the adjacent building had a lovely ring.
In the video, just above that flag, you’ll see the apartment where Marcel Proust lived with his family for many years. We had been here for nearly a year before I realized I was living across the street from Proust’s former home. It bears mentioning that Proust wrote nothing in that apartment, and only began In Search of Lost Time after he had moved to a different flat, one where he was besieged by terrible neighbors doing constant construction. We too have terrible upstairs neighbors with a penchant for rowdy construction and even rowdier parties, and four young children who never take off their shoes. Fortunately, the neighbors left for their country house the day before lockdown, leaving us in a state of unexpected peace.
Our hometown in Northern California has been sheltering in place as long as France has. For those who are in areas where shelter-in-place orders were issued later, I offer a note of encouragement: two weeks in, it is getting easier to be homebound. One acclimates. One settles into new routines. Despite the restlessness, there is a sense of peace that comes with knowing your community is doing the right thing, and that there is a light at the end of the tunnel.
It’s also strangely relaxing. In 20 years of marriage, my husband has never spent this many consecutive weekdays at home. It is a gift and a revelation. I always assumed 24/7 cohabitation would be detrimental to marital accord, but as it turns out, one quickly figures out the new domestic choreography. (It helps if your husband has always been the better partner when it comes to dishes).
Even our teenaged son has settled in with little complaint. For the first time in years, thanks to a shortened school day and less homework, he’s getting adequate sleep, which may be why he’s in such a good mood. (For the record, I think kids have every right to complain right now; they’re the first adolescents in 102 years to live through a pandemic, so we should all cut them some slack.)
France reported more than 400 deaths yesterday, and the hottest spot of the outbreak in the country is now Paris. Sadly, we know that deaths will continue to rise in coming days, but hopefully the rate of new infections will begin to slow. We are encouraged by the news that San Francisco is flattening the curve, but we worry about friends and family back home, especially in California and New York.
Yet I am optimistic, because I can imagine a future in which we’re looking BACK at this virus, reflecting on the way it changed our lives, instead of looking nervously ahead.
Coronavirus in Paris Update: March 13,2020: A few hours after I wrote this post, Macron addressed the nation live on TV. He closed all schools, creches, and universities beginning Monday.Watching the address felt like watching a disaster movie play out in real life. It was a moving, sobering, speech, in which the embattled Macron exhibited leadership and intelligence.
Paraphrasing: “This is the worst health crisis France has faced in a century. This virus has no passport and knows no boundaries…” His call for unity in Europe and the world was a stark reminder of how much has been lost in terms of credibility and leadership in America in the last three years.
“We are just at the beginning of this crisis,” Macron said. “In spite of all our efforts to break it, this virus is continuing to propagate and to accelerate.”
Today, I awoke to the news that the U.S. had “banned all travel from Europe to the United Sates.” I will admit to experiencing about two minutes of panic. I clutched my husband’s arm and said, “Don’t go to work!”
He laughed and said, “I have to go to work.” Which is pretty much always the story.
I said, “What if we can never leave?”
He said, “You’ll feel better after coffee.” Which also is pretty much always the story.
For those of us prone to disaster thinking, a full-blown actual disaster is a mine field. You see, three weeks ago, before Coronavirus was much of an issue in France, I woke shaking from a dream in which Young Reluctant P. was trying to shove me out the door, screaming, “There’s no time! We have to go somewhere else now!” It was one of those dreams so vivid that, for a few moments after waking, I still thought it had actually happened. In the dream, my son was wearing his Raiders sweatshirt. I woke because I could actually feel the pressure of his hands on my arms.
The dream has come back to me many times over the last couple of weeks. But, as Mr. Reluctant P. reminds me, if all my vivid nighttime dreams–both the good ones and the bad ones–came true, we’d be living in Sea Cliff with an unobstructed view of the Golden Gate Bridge, I’d make blueberry pies from scratch that I’d serve to Justin Trudeau*, who would be wearing a flannel shirt, and I would have to take a surprise math exam every few months–as an adult, in a room full of high school students. But none of those things ever happened. Not Sea Cliff. Not the math exams. Certainly not Justin Trudeau and the pies.
I went online and read that a certain someone’s statement had been inaccurate, and that US citizens are still allowed to return home. I read on WhatsApp that my son’s school was planning an assembly today. I thought: that is such a bad idea. So I didn’t wake him up for school. (He soon woke up anyway, because the world may end but my upstairs neighbors will still renovate their apartment all day every day, and the power may go out but the workers will still magically power their industrial-strength drills with fairy dust.)
When I went out later, I noticed that those grocery store shelves, full two days ago, were looking a little sparser. What disappears from store shelves first during times of scarcity reveals a lot about the culture. All of the regular pasta was gone, but you could still get whole wheat pasta. All of the white toilet paper–gone–but there was a whole shelf full of miniature pink toilet paper rolls.
All pasta gone, except whole what
White toilet paper: gone. Pink toilet paper: left behind.
Should you be the rare American in Paris who prefers Harry’s American Sandwich Bread in a country where fresh-baked, inexpensive bread is available on every street corner, you’ll be happy to know that Harry’s American Sandwich Bread has not left the building. Yet. Maybe not ever. If the bakeries close, all hell will break loose. After all, one of the most common French phrases is “Long comme un jour sans pain (“as long as a day without bread”).”
I worry about my friends and family back home in California, where the virus has been spreading rapidly. On the other hand, our community in Northern California, despite testing limitations, is handling mitigation so much more stridently than France. Governor Newsom has advised against even small gatherings where people cannot maintain a distance. Meanwhile, in France, with more than 500 confirmed cases in the Paris region alone, we still have public salad bars at the grocery store. I saw one today. I think salad bars are a bad idea under any circumstances, ever, but it seems particularly ill-advised during a, you know, pandemic.
Macron keeps saying the government is taking appropriate measures to address what will be a very longterm epidemic. But he hasn’t yet encouraged people to work from home. He hasn’t urged businesses to allow employees to work remotely. Nor is he advising schools to allow students to study from home.
I understand that closing schools causes disruption by preventing parents from working, and I understand that parents in professions that can’t be done from home need a place to send their children. School is a safe and crucial place for many kids and a necessity for their families. That said, Macron could limit the spread of novel coronavirus by making it clear that work, whenever possible, can and should be done from home. That would give a large percentage of Parisian families the ability to keep their children home from school.
An Oasis
I went to the park near our apartment mid-morning to get some exercise. I’ve completely stopped going to the gym, which is smelly under the best of circumstances, crowded, and poorly ventilated. The park is a miniature oasis, a godsend, a way to get a little greenery in the concrete jungle of Paris. It was recess time for nearby schools, so the kids were in the park in their bright green vests, as they always are at recess time.
In some ways, seeing large crowds of children playing tag at the park was comforting. The children seemed happy and healthy. They were loud and rowdy, as children should be during recess. They were enjoying themselves. On the other hand, a few schools with children of different grades were all running around at the same time. The CDC has advised against grade-mixing to slow the spread.
Because school groups aren’t allowed to play on the grass in the, the children were, as usual, all crowded into the dirt pathway that runs between two gates. I know you can’t and shouldn’t stop children from playing, but surely the groups could spread out a bit. Less tag, more Simon Says and jumping jacks. I’m not a teacher, and I understand it’s difficult to wrangle children, who desperately need to get their energy out. This is just a case where schools could use more serious advice from the government.
Face-planting on Dirty Yoga Mats in the Midst of Coronavirus
My son’s school held a school-wide assembly this morning. Earlier this week, they had the kids doing yoga in a basement room. The yoga mats were dirty and had not been sanitized. The room is poorly ventilated. The kids were instructed to place their faces against the mats. It’s just…why? The nurse came to homeroom to give the kids a lesson on hand washing. When one of them said, “Shouldn’t we wash our hands for 20 seconds?” the school nurse said, “10 seconds is enough.”
Long lunches die hard.
Restaurants are still in full swing at lunch time, which seems like a bad idea. But France is slow to change. When your routine is to have lunch with all of your office-mates every day, there is little effort, without government advice and leadership, to abandon those lunches in restaurants and simply carve out a space at your desk to eat. Eating lunch together is deeply embedded in the culture. But cultures must adapt in bizarre times. And this is, indeed, a bizarre time.
“This epidemic is a threat for every country, rich and poor. And as we’ve said before, even the high-income countries should expect surprises,” he said. “We’re concerned that in some countries, the level of political commitment and the actions that demonstrate that commitment do not match the level of the threat we all face.”
This includes the slow response of the Trump administration, which until yesterday was far more concerned with limiting the damage to Trump’s reputation than actually informing Americans of the facts and providing proper guidance. The United States still lags far behind other countries in its ability to test patients. This became symbolically clear when Tom Hanks, who was diagnosed with coronavirus along with his wife, Rita Wilson, told his followers that getting tested in Australia is easy, fast, and free.
There’s no putting the pandemic back in the bottle. Nations will now determine, by action or inaction, the severity of the pandemic.
DIY hand sanitizer
Meanwhile, I checked in with my gardienne today and was happy to see the aloe I ordered from Amazon.fr last week had arrived. My husband managed to find a bottle of rubbing alcohol near his workplace. My sister in Napa, whose husband is an infectious diseases expert (whose funding for years-long, highly effective research on just this sort of pandemic was entirely cut off by the Trump administration two years ago), had sent me a video about how to make hand sanitizer with aloe and rubbing alcohol.
So I am feeling excited about the prospect of becoming, at this late moment in my life, a DIYer. I will mix that aloe and alcohol. I will get my hands dirty…I mean, clean. Like all of us, everywhere, I will adapt.
Peace out. Stay safe. Much love from Paris. Still dreaming of California.
Hi, everyone. As coronavirus continues to spread in France and around the world, I thought I’d share with you a video of what it’s like to live in Paris right now. (Scroll down to watch the video, shot in my apartment, because: Coronavirus).
No Kissing – The Ban on La Bise
Just when you think everything is business-as-usual, you go in for la bise and realize Macron told you not to. You only realize this because the other person is backing away. La bise is the traditional French kissy-kissy greeting. When we moved to Paris, it was hard to get used to kissing everybody, but now that we’ve been here more than a year and a half, it’s even harder to stop kissing everybody. It turns out, as much as I dislike socializing, j’adore non-committal, low-contact kissing.
Mr. Reluctant P., on the other hand, is elated about this turn of events (the ban on la bise, not Covid-19), because he dies a little death of the soul every time he goes to a meeting with his French counterparts and the kissing starts. He’s a man who likes his personal space as much as he likes his Mallomars. At these meetings, they start the kissing before they serve the wine (and they always serve wine at the business lunch), so he is not even a tiny bit relaxed for the incoming bises. Watching my husband try to avoid la bise is like watching a tennis match: he’s got game, but French people have more.
Dreaming of California Style “Abundance of Caution”
Mr. Reluctant P. and Young Reluctant P. and I very much want to be home, even though home is a hotbed of coronavirus in the US at the moment. Some of my son’s friends’ schools back in Northern California have closed out of “an abundance of caution.” You never really know how much you love “an abundance of caution” until you live in a country where caution is thrown to the wind. Paris schools are still open, despite the rapid spread of the virus in France and Macron’s announcement that it is now an epidemic here. (In the video, I explain why the schools aren’t closing here…yet).
Plenty of Cheese, No Hand Sanitizer
The good news is, Paris stores are still well-stocked (although there is no hand sanitizer to be found anywhere) and no one seems to be in panic mode. Except yours truly, because that is how I cope. My husband and son don’t call me The Safety Commissioner for nothing.
The Champs Elysees Garden at lunchtime in February 2020
I freaked out last week and placed an order for delivery from Monoprix. The two grocery bags that arrived –3 cans of tuna, 5 cans of beans, three bottles of wine, six packages of pasta, six tiny jars of pasta sauce, more salami than anyone needs, ever, CHEESE (obviously), four boxes of soup, six liters of that sad-tasting yet sturdy Euro-milk that has a shelf-life of months instead of weeks–would hardly qualify as End-of-the-World-Ready by American terms, but it was enough that the delivery guy wished me a happy party. What the French call “hoarding” is what Americans call “a regular trip to Target.” As an American family of three whose pantry could feed a French family of six for months, we’re fine. Although: those beans! Mr. Reluctant P. hasn’t eaten a bean in the 25 years I’ve known him, and, as he pointed out, he’s not about to start now. He wanted to know why I hadn’t ordered any les petites ecoliers cookies or Mallomars…as if one can find Mallomars at the Monoprix (we wish).
Fortunately, there’s still plenty of cheese.
Video (wonky) & Audio (less wonky) – What It’s Like in Paris Right Now
I apologize in advance for the audiodrift in the video. I’m going to blame it on my inept internet connection, which drops in and out multiple times in a half-hour web-surfing session. If mismatched lips and words drive you bonkers, you can listen instead of watch. The audio version of this broadcast is available on The Reluctant Parisian Podcast, or you can just scroll down to listen to the audio file.
I’d love to know how things are shaping up in your town or city, whether you’re in Europe or back home in America. Stay safe, everybody. And, you know, avec du savon, lavez-vous bien les mains. (So says The Safety Commissioner).
Update, March 9, afternoon
By the way, I went to Picard this morning to buy some basic frozen items like fish and blueberries, wrote this post, and then looked at the news, only to see that the stock market took such a beating this morning, trading has actually been halted. The headline on France24 is now “Panic triggers stockpiling frenzy.” So, even though life goes on mostly as usual in Paris and elsewhere for the moment, the pace of change is accelerated and unpredictable, and this does feel entirely different from anything I’ve experienced in my lifetime. It’s strange and discombobulating and seriously alarming. Fortunately, we still have Netflix. And books.
Update, March 10
1,412 confirmed cases, 25 deaths.
French news media is reporting that Franck Riester, the French Culture Minister, has coronavirus. To understand what a big deal this is, you have to understand what a big deal the idea of culture is in France. Culture and everything it entails, in terms of art, music, literature, film, and theatre, is at the very heart of French identity. The French are proud of their culture, and rightly so. Riester’s diagnosis is a major symbolic signpost of the magnitude of the coronavirus crisis. Imagine, for example, if, in America, the Secretary of the Treasury (let’s forget individual secretaries of the treasury and concentrate on the position and office itself) were to be diagnosed with coronavirus.
Reiser likely contracted the virus in the lower house of the National Assembly; five other members of parliament have been confirmed to have coronavirus. He appears to be feeling, fine, however. If he and other parliament members emerge unscathed from their illnesses, it will likely make France breathe a sigh of relief.
It’s Thursday in Paris, and the headline on CNN is, “France Told to Prepare for Outbreak Like Italy’s.” I’m waiting for Young Reluctant P. to get home from school on the crowded metro, which is a germ-fest under the best of circumstances, and I’m wondering for the umpteenth time what made us decide to leave our great life and great friends and family in spacious, green, sea-swept California and move to such a dense, noisy, chaotic and very inland city, where personal space is hard to come by.
All day the workers have been drilling and jackhammering in the apartment above me, as they do every day. It’s 4:22, which means they’ll be going home soon, and the drilling will be replaced by the screaming of les petits elephants, which is a welcome substitution, and the louder, angrier screaming of the four little elephants’ impatient father, which is not welcome at all.
Over at my regular website, MichelleRichmond.com, I provide a new, unpublished short story–both a text and audio version–to subscribers once a month. Since this month’s story is about Paris, and was written in this very apartment, in the din of the drills and amidst the uncertainty of the spreading coronavirus, I thought it would be a good fit for The Reluctant Parisian.
You can listen to the story below. If you want to get more fiction (which is usually a different beast altogether than what I do here at The Reluctant Parisian), you can sign up for free monthly story here.
Ferris wheels, gift packets, meat pastries, & the Tuileries Christmas Market
Everywhere I nest, from Knoxville to Miami, New York City to San Francisco, a few times a year I find myself carrying brownies to a party on an unwieldy plate, wrapped poorly in aluminum foil. Paris is no exception. This is Champs Elysees, all lit up for the holidays, and here are the brownies–whipped up by Mr. Reluctant P. from the Ghirardelli mix. They don’t sell Ghirardelli brownie mix in Paris, so we have it shipped from home. When you are domestically challenged, it doesn’t matter how many French cooking classes you take from the brilliant and talented Veronique–you’ll still have to resort to brownies from a mix when “homemade” is called for.
Of course, there are beautiful confections in all the shop windows. Paris pastries are always a dream, but the patisseries really bring out the magic at Christmas. There are lots of little cakes shaped like logs and beds, and pinecones everywhere.
It’s not just the patisseries that doll things up for the holidays, though. This shop on Avenue Wagram sells lots of pretty things that look like pastries, but they’re actually all stuffed with meat products. Maybe I just haven’t developed a proper French palate yet, but glazed, gelatinous, smashed and molded meat products, many of them crafted from baby geese, strike me as entirely unappealing.
Holiday Reading: I’m reading and loving Flights, by Olga Tokarkzuk (Indiebound, Amazon). A book about travel, family, migration, and a whole lot of other things, this is a wide-ranging, gorgeous book to settle in with over many nights by the fire (or by the portable radiator, Paris style).
The little joy of un paquet cadeau: I picked my copy of Flights (and a few gifts) at my second favorite bookstore in Paris, Galignani, on Rue de Rivoli. (My favorite? Red Wheelbarrow). Galignani is a French bookstore with an impressive English-language section. Best of all, they do what all nice Parisian retailers do: they ask if you would like un paquet cadeau. That just means do you want it gift wrapped. If you say oui, they’ll whip out the tissue and the store sticker and wrap it up for you on the spot, free of charge, like so:
Of course, book shopping makes me want to drink coffee, which is how I ended up at Kitsune, eating Christmas cake, and watching the world go by.
The gloriously garish Tuileries Christmas market: Where can you find kitschy Santas, funnel cakes, slabs of nougat, the calorie bomb comfort food known as tartiflette, and a terrifying spinning wheel that whips riders high above Paris at an alarming speed, all within steps of the Louvre? The Tueileries Christmas Market, of course!
The other La Duree: One day, as I was walking by Mr. Reluctant P’s office, I called him and asked if he could meet me at the WH Smith Tea Room for a quick coffee and pastry. As it turned out, the tea room was all boarded up, so we went in search of a place that would sell hot chocolate (for him), coffee (for me), and would not require a two-hour interlude, because when you actually live and work in Paris, as opposed to vacationing here, you can’t take two hours out of your day to chat romantically over your pastries.
That’s when we happened upon La Duree at Madeleine. There are a few La Duree shops and cafes around Paris. If you’re in town, definitely skip the one on Champs Elysees and instead head to one of the smaller cafes. You might get a nice spot by the window, a beautiful hot chocolate, and a pretty lemon tart to go with your macaron, because, if you’re going to sit down anyway…
How the French do the Flu Shot: Winter means it’s flu shot time! So you buy the flu shot from the pharmacy and when you ask the pharmacist if she can inject it she tells you to do it yourself. You start giving her, “I can’t be hearing you correctly looks,” and pulling out the high school French: “Repetez s’il vous plait?” at which point she smiles sweetly and mimes injecting herself.
Right. You manage to ask in your wretchedly limited French if there is any other way, and she tells you to make an appointment with a doctor if you can’t do it yourself, although it is clear she thinks you’re a total wimp if you can’t do it yourself. Then she tells you to keep it cool. You believe she is referring to the flu shot, not to your totally uncool self, although that is a distinct possibility.
You ask if it’s supposed to go in the frigo, or–not knowing the word for freezer, you engage in a spirited mime–and she laughs at you, because who would put the flu shot in the freezer? So you take it home and put it in the fridge, in the butter drawer, where it sits to this day.
Transit strike reality: Paris functions well, except when it doesn’t. The transit strikes have made daily life raucous and unpredictable. We just tell our son that one day, he’ll get to tell his kids that he walked two miles each way through the freezing rain to school. Actually, one way. My husband has been driving him to school in the morning, which takes them round L’Etoile, the greatest Parisian mystery of them all. How do you get a few hundred cars around a 7-lane roundabout with 12 entries and zero marked lanes? Nobody seems to know. It just happens.
Christmas trees in Paris: We bought a little tree from the Franprix and carried it home. (Okay, Young Reluctant P. carried it home). I always love a Charlie Brown tree, and this one is no exception. Fortunately, there are beautiful Christmas trees all over Paris if we want to look at something a little more elegant.
Of course, when Paris just seems too much, when you have walked as far as you can possibly walk to find a real cup of coffee and a video game to put under the tree, when you have searched far and wide for a ham to cook on Christmas Day but can only find raw turkeys–you have no idea what to do with a raw turkey in your American oven, and certainly not in your tiny, finicky French oven–Paris will find a way to delight you. Like so:
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 Bretonis 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.
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?”
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