This summer, I almost fell in love. This is a courageous confession and I will say no more. (Love, like sex, is mine and mine alone b*tchez!) Somewhere around month two of our cross-Channel-tryst, I started feeling it, that very familiar, endorphin-laden high that I had practically laid a crest on, gradually transforming me into a big, dumb glob of mush. For months, I wasn’t particularly good at doing anything except chatting on WhatsApp, jumping on trains for romantic getaways, daydreaming while roaming the streets, daydreaming over bucketloads of rosé and just being a giant, walking waste of space.
Yeah, summer 2015 was fun.
In my first days of living in Paris, I quickly discovered a way to soften the notoriously frosty Parisian demeanor. “Je suis New Yorkaise,” I would utter, with what I hoped was an air of nonchalance, and would watch my opponent’s expression morph from superiority to something that could almost be mistaken for . . . admiration? Just as Paris seems to be the only city capable of intimidating the jaded New Yorker, that same fascination has been flowing back across the Atlantic in equal measure. The French are increasingly enthralled with all things New York—particularly its crunchier artisanal cousin, Brooklyn. From the endless cohort of sneakers and Levi’s 501s to the ironic Girls references to the bagel shops and vegan eateries sprouting in lieu of traditional brasseries, Paris, it seems, is getting more and more like New York’s own Left Bank. And as the new Brooklyn Rive Gauche exposition at Le Bon Marché debuts, another question arises: Just as American women have fetishized the mythical romantic Gallic gentleman, do Parisians hold a torch for the Brooklyn equivalent? And is that why every guy here wears plaid shirts and week-old stubble?
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Back before globalization (and the Internet) made it possible for the Saint Laurent bag du jour and the latest Chanel quelque-chose to become available worldwide, all of the best things in the French fashion world were concentrated in their place of origin: Paris. And even today, there are still some things that you just can’t find online—like the contents of many Parisian closets, which double as sartorial goldmines and are only emptied for the most in-the-know boutiques in Paris. If you don’t happen to have a French fairy godmother offering up her most prized possessions, your next best bet are some of the most trusted names on the Parisian vintage circuit—find them here.
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“The only day I ever wanted a girlfriend was on Sunday,” a friend informed me yesterday, staring at his girlfriend of two years with a content look on his face. It was, indeed, a Sunday. The couch across from me was overspilling with canoodling couples, enjoying their blissful afternoon of using each other as human pillows. My single tush was parked on the floor, nurturing her struggles with a macadamia chocolate chip cookie.
This was not the first time I had heard the Sunday Theory, in which the holy day of R&R seems to incite the basic need for companionship in even the most stone-hearted of individuals. But where does this leave the rest of the days of the week? Let’s take a look at the internal day-to-day monologue of being single, as derived from abundant personal experience!
Fashion Boyfriends, i.e. men dating or married to women in the fashion industry, are like modern-day Army Wives. They stand by their significant others, watching them spend more on furry Gucci slippers than most human beings spend on rent without budging an inch. (Some even bravely pull out their credit cards, although I’m not even advocating that – your vices should be your own financial responsibility!) They listen to conversations that occasionally sound like record players jammed on the word “amazing” without convulsing in pain. They are silent heroes and must be saluted with the same levels of respect. Here’s how to tell them apart.
Editor’s Note: This story is brought to you by Jordan Nadler (@Nadleresque), the wunderkind behind French Medicine. Today, Jordan loses her douchebag storytelling virginity, proving, once and for all, that she has a true calling in life. Enjoy.
Fact: Going surfing with a French male model is a TERRIBLE idea if you are aggressively bad at surfing and haven’t mastered the “sexy drown.”
Once Upon A Time I was sleeping with a male model I met on Tinder this summer because I sporadically pepper my life with unfortunate decisions. His profession would be completely irrelevant if it wasn’t for the fact that his face was everywhere when we met. After the clusterfuck that was our last week together, I couldn’t even walk into a pharmacy to buy a tube of toothpaste without seeing his squinty-eyed mug selling moderately luxurious shaving cream. It was like God’s way of physicalizing the fact that my questionable choices in men do, in fact, haunt me.