First and foremost, I’m back. For the first time in a week and a half since leaving for Paris, I have actual access to actual WiFi conducive to giant image files. As much as my Airbnb situation in Paris was awesome in every other way, we did have a couple of connectivity hiccups that found me attempting to upload photos in the Champs-Elysées Starbucks every other night to very little success.
Secondly, I’m back. In Sydney. While the next couple of weeks are going to be a panicked rough and tumble of preparing for exams (because when am I not), a TV series premiere, the ELLE Style Awards (vote Zhang, if you will), racing season (of which I have no real knowledge, but I do intensely enjoy studying the interior design at The Stables in Randwick), and all too many projects in the works and wrapping up, this web space will remain firmly planted à Paris. At least, until 8pm sunsets hit Sydney once more. I have too many highlights from the city of love and its Fashion Week to leave on backlog, so brace yourselves.
As an aside, my Blob (blunt long bob) is also back. Thanks Paloma.
Allez, c’est parti!
Having grown up in a country with an incredibly rich cultural origins, but a comparatively miniscule architectural history, Europe at street level is fascinating. Between its early 1900 eccentricities (think marching your pet cheetahs down La Seine, stark naked under three fur coats – all credit to Marchesa Casati), and the city’s Golden Hollywood sensationalism, Paris has come to be the most enrapturing place to be so inspired by what humans were capable of building that you end up light-headed. The number of times I’ve asked strangers about some intricately carved building of every column, scroll, gargoyle and filigree iron trimming Disney could imagine, only to receive a dismissive c’est rien – probablement des appartements in return, amazes me. Ironically, with economics and material resources aside, it would seem that we’ve become almost incapable of creating structures quite as magically detailed. And for that, I’m glad that the likes of musée du Louvre and Hôtel de Ville have remained well-maintained and artistic sanctuaries amongst the chaos of a modern city.
I will admit that I’ve never been inside Louvre. Somehow, there’s never been a good time (and I’d imagine, there never will be, given that most of my time in Paris is work-related and, unfortunately, one does not simply pop into the Louvre between meetings – can somebody please enlighten me as to the rumoured side entrance, without any lines in the dead of Winter?). But, until I do make it through the doors detouring through its square as soon as sunlight comes over its eaves, and biking through sunset over those glass pyramids, is quite enough for me – and you can pass on my regards to the Mona Lisa.
On this particular Sunday morning, en route to the Chloé show, the French were asleep, of course, and the tourists had been told by Trip Advisor that the French were asleep, and so there was nothing to see.
A quiet, echoing Louvre to yourself, save a couple of security guards, is a spine-tingling thing.
Make it a priority. Vive la France.