Out of step

Trying not to be a fashion "don't" in Paris.

Hello dear readers,

Sorry it’s been a while…Last week, I took a writing workshop in Paris that sucked every last ounce of creativity and writing juju out of me. The group was filled with very accomplished memoirists, fiction writers, and former journalists, and the urge to flee nearly got the best of me. But this time, instead of running away like I did from Hebrew school when I was 11, I stuck it out, imposter syndrome be damned. I left with a handful of rough drafts and my ego nearly intact. A win, in my opinion. 

In any case, below is my latest dispatch from France as we round the corner of our month-long stay in Paris. As always, your comments and feedback are most welcome.  

xo

Sacha 

P.S. New here? Check out the stories behind A Good Vintage here and here. You can also access the full archive and check out some of my favorite French things here.

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All’s well in the 16th arrondissement, where we’ve been living our best French life for almost a month now. The apartment is spotless thanks to Jason, we have our favorite boulangerie, have mastered the self-checkout at the Monoprix and can even ride the Metro without looking like bewildered tourists. Yet while Jason has leveled up his fashion game (so many pocket squares!), I still feel slightly out of step.

Many would argue that the French are the most fashionable people in the world, and the pressure to look a certain way is particularly acute in Paris. Coming from what may be one of the least fashionable places on Earth, Washington, DC, I was already at a disadvantage. Add to that my short stature and middle age bod, and achieving fashion Nirvana in the City of Light has been a challenge.

For months before we left DC, I perused fashion blogs, Instagram, and books that extolled the marvels of the French aesthetic. I searched high and low for a beige trench coat that is on every top 10 list of what you must bring with you to Paris. J.Crew had one in a petite size that was sold out by the time I found out about it, and others, like the classic Burberry, are prohibitively expensive and frankly, too big and cumbersome. I eventually gave up and made do with my trusty, yet unstylish black L.L Bean raincoat.

Photo by Celine Ylmz on Unsplash

Since our arrival, I’ve either been overdressed or underdressed, too hot or too cold, or wearing last year’s colors and painfully unfashionable jeans. My scarves don’t behave and are always getting tangled or coming undone, and my shoes are comfortable but dorky. There is literally a single photo of me (above) where I don’t look awkward, which is probably because I’d already had two glasses of Champagne. FWIW, the leather jacket and scarf in that photo are about 20 years old.

The other day, I spotted a very hip woman in her late 60s on the Metro who was a vision of sartorial splendor. I was mesmerized by her as she sat their gabbing with her friend, oblivious to me flagrantly staring at her. Her sneakers were little works of art, her silver bobbed hair a revelation, and her red bracelet and earrings perfectly matched the lining of her artsy felt overcoat. I made Jason snap a photo of her shoes, hoping I’d be able to find them and get a sliver of her je ne sais quoi.  

For some reason, I thought that after a few weeks in France, I’d magically turn into “une femme d'un certain âge” with effortless style and elegance–a better, French version of the fashion challenged 54-year-old woman who rarely finds clothes that fit, lives in yoga pants, and who rolls her eyes when she hears people refer to clothes from the 1990s as “vintage.” I complain to my friends that “I just don’t get the fashion these days,” while giving side-eye to the baggy wide-leg jeans and (God help me) “puddle pants” currently in vogue.

Unfortunately, the new and improved French Sacha has yet to fully materialize. I’ve embarked on several trips to Printemps and Galeries Lafayette as well as boutiques like APC and Sezanne. Surely I could find at least one pair of new summer pants and a few shirts that would help me look like the “After” photo in a makeover. Yet, almost all of these trips have been failures. 

Jason and I went to Le Bon Marché, a beautiful department store in the 6th where I was determined to get a pair of “au courant” sneakers to replace my beat up On Clouds. I spotted a pair similar to the ones that the lady on the Metro was wearing but they cost around $650 euros at Chloe, so that was out of the question. I roamed around looking at kicks from Veja, Isabel Marant, Adidas, and Chanel, gripped by indecision and sticker shock. (Spoiler alert: I’ll probably get these).

The Chloe sneakers

I was also distracted by all the ultra stylish women swanning around me, including a woman who had clearly just had her eyes done and was hiding under a giant hat. In the time that I had wasted wandering around aimless and cranky, Jason had somehow managed to buy a light pink button down shirt, a new belt, and a colorful pocket square to add to his robust French wardrobe. He met me in the women’s shoe department, tried to help me find my elusive dream sneakers, and eventually gave up and went to a nearby cafe to wait for me.

I did have one successful shopping experience with my new friend Susan, the sister of a woman I met on a trip to Joshua Tree years ago. Susan is about a foot taller than me with wavy blond hair and legs for miles. I’d hate her if she wasn’t so darn lovely. After visiting the Picasso Museum, we stopped for lunch at a nearby cafe and had salads and rosé. We chatted with the charming waiter and discussed everything from family to travel to how we both would like to leave the U.S. sooner rather than later.

With Susan a few days after our shopping escapade, wearing my new, slowly unraveling scarf and Merci earrings.

After lunch, we traipsed around the Marais, lightly buzzed (the best way to shop, in my opinion) and I managed to find some cool earrings at Merci, a black and white silk scarf from & Other Stories, a blue linen jacket and a crisp white shirt that have spruced up my sad DC wardrobe. 

I still haven’t found my Ruby Sneakers, the shoes that will transform me into French Sacha, French Jason’s fashionable counterpart. So this morning, I did what I often do to console myself: I ate a delightful crusty baguette slathered in butter and then took a long stroll around the tree-lined Bois de Boulogne where no one, especially not the ducks or geese, cared how I looked.

The judgment free Bois de Boulogne