>> 'Twas the night we arrived in Paris, when all through the city, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. It was almost frightening how deserted it was -- for a second there, I was ready to write off Paris for a ghost town. My boyfriend and I were both ravenous after a day of travel, so we set off in search of a good French restaurant. I know that's kind of stupid, seeing as there's really no such thing as a "bad" French restaurant -- French chefs do commit suicide if their meal is not presentable, after all. But it turned out that the quest was harder than expected -- not because we couldn't find any good restaurants, but because they were all closed, rather (yay Parisian vacances!). Finally, after two good hours of trekking around the Marais, an oasis sprang up amidst the desert -- this adorable little cafe hidden in the Place des Vosges (left). And, even better, the cafe passed our two requirements: 1) the menus being in French; and 2) the customers were conversing in French. Because, really, why would you go to France to order from a English menu and dine with English-speaking peoples?
So, we're seated. And by this time, my stomach felt like it was about ready to jump out of me and go find a meal on its own. We are brought the menus, settle down at the thought of finally getting some good food, and then, I see it. The fine print. It always gets you. "No credit cards." (Except in that lovely flowerly language that is French). Oh gawd. Us being tourists, we weren't carrying enough cash. Why would we ever do something like that? Really.
I catch the waiter at his earliest convenience and bumble through asking him where the nearest ATM is. Of course, I don't actually know the word for ATM, because why would they ever have taught me such a useful word in six years of high school/college French? The waiter cocks his head at me like a dog does when it hears a weird noise. And then there's the awkward silence. Bumble bumble bumbling again, I finally get the point across. My boyfriend goes running off, following my pieced-together directions, and I'm left to stare at my menu.
Later, he tells me that in his rush to get the money so we can eat, he runs into a fellow patron's head with his arm. And brilliantly, instead of saying "Pardon" or "Excusez-moi" like I told him too, he says "Oh, Merci." Thank you ever so much for running your head into my arm -- how kind. I don't think I'm ever going to let him live that one down.
by philleif
>> 'Twas the night we arrived in Paris, when all through the city, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. It was almost frightening how deserted it was -- for a second there, I was ready to write off Paris for a ghost town. My boyfriend and I were both ravenous after a day of travel, so we set off in search of a good French restaurant. I know that's kind of stupid, seeing as there's really no such thing as a "bad" French restaurant -- French chefs do commit suicide if their meal is not presentable, after all. But it turned out that the quest was harder than expected -- not because we couldn't find any good restaurants, but because they were all closed, rather (yay Parisian vacances!). Finally, after two good hours of trekking around the Marais, an oasis sprang 
up amidst the desert -- this adorable little cafe hidden in the Place des Vosges (left). And, even better, the cafe passed our two requirements: 1) the menus being in French; and 2) the customers were conversing in French. Because, really, why would you go to France to order from a English menu and dine with English-speaking peoples?
So, we're seated. And by this time, my stomach felt like it was about ready to jump out of me and go find a meal on its own. We are brought the menus, settle down at the thought of finally getting some good food, and then, I see it. The fine print. It always gets you. "No credit cards." (Except in that lovely flowerly language that is French). Oh gawd. Us being tourists, we weren't carrying enough cash. Why would we ever do something like that? Really.
I catch the waiter at his earliest convenience and bumble through asking him where the nearest ATM is. Of course, I don't actually know the word for ATM, because why would they ever have taught me such a useful word in six years of high school/college French? The waiter cocks his head at me like a dog does when it hears a weird noise. And then there's the awkward silence. Bumble bumble bumbling again, I finally get the point across. My boyfriend goes running off, following my pieced-together directions, and I'm left to stare at my menu.
Later, he tells me that in his rush to get the money so we can eat, he runs into a fellow patron's head with his arm. And brilliantly, instead of saying "Pardon" or "Excusez-moi" like I told him too, he says "Oh, Merci." Thank you ever so much for running your head into my arm -- how kind. I don't think I'm ever going to let him live that one down.
And what's worse -- this is just the beginning of the night's misunderstandings -- at the ATM, there was a "normal-looking" woman waiting behind him in line. She tells him: "J'aime tes cheveux." (I love your hair.) He understood, miraculously, but his French vocabulary consists of two words: oui and merci. He picks the most appropriate: "Oui." She speaks again, but this time, he only understands one word out the whole phrase: "toucher" (to touch). His response again (he's so well-versed): "Oui." Before he knows it, the woman is rubbing her hands all through his hair. Startled, he runs away, but not before a polite: "Merci."
Meanwhile, back at the cafe, I am musing over the menu and drooling. Soupe a l'oignon...gazpacho...steak frites...and their recommended special: Steak tartare (right). Yes, that's gourmet speak for raw beef. That you eat. And it's a delicacy. To be or not to be? You'll just have to wait and see... A bientot!
**sources: pmmh.espci.fr, luxuryweb.com
Black opaque tights have always been a staple item of mine, so I may be partially biased, but with Edie Sedgwick being a major influence on the runways for fall, I think they're a safe bet. I especially like this Mary Kate Olsen-influenced look that is a bit punkish (right), because it balances out a dress that might be a bit stuffy otherwise. And it so easy to do -- just drop by your nearest drug store, throw your new tights to the dog, and there you go, without even lifting a finger. Seriously though, we've all ripped our tights without meaning to, so why not take advantage of the look while it's around and recycle those old things stuffed in the back of your sock drawer?
The more classic and sophisticated look of cable-knit or crochet-- probably the style I have seen most often in ads. These tights are very versatile -- they are simple and subtle, but at the same time they definitely add some panache to an outfit. In fact, I came across some Anna Sui brown cable knit tights (left) for $25 the other day -- probably the cheapest authentic designer deal I've ever come across. 
And then there's the gorgeous Swarovski crystal applique tights Zac Posen produced -- 99 pairs have been made, so it's not likely that I'll get my grubby little hands on some. But one can still appreciate the beauty of these "Imperial Legs," selling at Bergdorf Goodman for $500 -- they really are a masterpiece in their own. 
And finally, for the fearless -- the opaque white hose look that has shown up on the runways of Comme des Garcons and Valentino Couture. It reminds me of, I hate to say it, a nurse's uniform. There's a fine line to be walked between sexy stilletoed nurse and frumpy podiatric-shod nurse, so clearly shoe choice is key. But I would say as well that if you're feeling daring, try to stick to a monochrome outfit. 
