ONCE UPON A TIME IN PARIS...

Books, Paintings, Heroines, and "Emily in Paris"

Once upon a time, I lived in Paris. I lived in the 5th-floor chambre de bonne walk-up above the most charming chocolaterie on the Île Saint-Louis, I rushed through the groups of tourists around Notre Dame on my way to class at the Sorbonne, and I read dusty leather-bound first editions of French novels at the Bibliothèque de l'Arsenal, a beautiful 18th-century library that still housed the horses of the gendarmerie behind it, so on warm days the scent of horses and manure drifted through the windows.

Now, while I love the idea of “Emily in Paris”, I have to admit that this Netflix show is just too loud for me on all levels. I did enjoy, however, the little glimpses of what it’s like to be an American in Paris: the impatient coin-counting women at the boulangerie counters, the smarmy real estate agents, the dining culture, and the lectures on working to live instead of living to work, not to mention trying to find the lights in the vestibules of old buildings and craving staples from home like barbecue sauce and Oreos.

So I’ve been reliving some of my adventures in Lyon and Paris recently, and I’ve decided to give semi-autobiographical titles to a new, colorful mini collection of portrait plates.

The paintings will go live on my website at noon ET this Sunday, August 25. Check them out if you’re curious to know more about my adventures and mishaps living in France!

On the complete other side of the spectrum from “Emily in Paris”, I recently picked up a book about the new women movers and shakers in Paris. The book had a surprisingly fierce rhetoric about the need to debunk the myth of the archetypal French female. True, not all of us can or want to model ourselves on the Breton-stripe-wearing, red-lips-bisous-giving, high-heels-over-cobblestones French woman, but I have to admit that I don’t see the need to tear beautiful things down in the name of progress. For centuries, the glorious myth of the intellectual, sophisticated, clever, chic Frenchwoman has uplifted culture both at home and abroad. And I say: take from it what you will to become your own heroine.

It doesn’t have to be perfect. As for me, I’ve had Nutella for breakfast and I’m wearing a Galeries Lafayette blue and white striped top I thrifted that has “Ah Yes!” in puff letters boldly across the front. One of my favorite things about French fashion is when they use English words strangely, so when I came across this top in a thrift store I couldn’t resist it. In terms of French-life goals, we’re working towards Sunday dinners with family and friends…and of course taking the entire month of August off. Wouldn’t that be lovely?

Now that Agatha has (fingers crossed!) recovered from a condition that has kept us close to vets for a couple of years, we’re planning a trip back. In the meantime, I’ll be revisiting the clumsy but magical adventures of the American in Paris in my paintings.

Here I am with Agatha in front of the historic Shakespeare & Co. bookstore on the Left Bank, shortly after the plane touched down. I’m wearing sweatpants (not French) hidden under a vintage raincoat (totally French), and she definitely has the face of a little dog who has been on a long trip, but pulls it off with her usual effortless chic.