In 2013 it was the crop top, which I was all too happy to forgo. In 2014 it was the bucket bag, a specific color-block Proenza Schouler that I coveted for months, before its imminent veto. This year it was the reworked vintage jeans by cult-favorite Vetements, which were spotted all over the Spring 2016 street style galleries. During each of my three years living in Paris, I consciously skipped a trend, not because I disliked it (crop tops and their required abdominal work aside), but because the idea of buying into it prompted the same perplexing question: “Where am I going to wear this?” Certainly not Paris.

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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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Ah, that first getaway with the new beau. . . .After a summer of getting to know each other over casual dinners and laissez-faire promenades, the Big Test has arrived: You are off for your first weekend of unity and togetherness and coupled-up bliss, where no secrets or personal pet peeves will be left uncovered. Which means that along with the general anxiety of whether or not you will still be dating once this is over comes a certain sartorially influenced stress level. After all, you want him to think that all those effortless outfits of yours practically materialize out of thin air rather than being the product of an overstuffed weekender that doubles as a back hazard. Recently confronted with this challenge over a weekend trip to Île de Ré, an island off the west coast of France, I learned some valuable lessons that show that a bit of preparation goes a very long way.

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Of all the things that confuse French people about Americans (noise levels, portion sizes, sweatpants in public . . . the list goes on), the biggest culture shock definitely lies in the phenomenon of the big fat American wedding. I’m always entertained watching my French colleagues devour Facebook albums of me in a parade of bridesmaid dresses and coiffed updos, mocking my resemblance to the seven girls by my side, all looking like “les meringues.”

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It is relatively common knowledge that the French have transformed doing nothing into an art form, one that takes on a whole new meaning once the summer rolls around. Weekends are long, workdays are short, and the office entrance is blocked by a small mountain of overnight duffel bags come Friday morning. Around 5:00 p.m., the scramble to make it to the next TGV train down South begins in a shift all too reminiscent of New Yorkers’ collective race to the Jitney.

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