Running up that hill

Here’s a part of Paris you’ve probably never seen.

I shook off my quasi-hangover and/or stubbornly ignored the cold that has been threatening me for days and spent yesterday out in the beautiful weather.

I walked around Saint-Germain where—success!—I found a great bathing suit for my rendez-vous with Melody on the Cote d’Azur this weekend. Then I daydreamed in front of the windows of a few select patisseries (I’m telling you, I’m going to keep shopping for bathing suits because it seems to be the only thing that convinces me I don’t need to sample another warm buttery croissant or raspberry gateau).

It was only mid-day and I was enjoying the rare luxury of having no itinerary or pressing errands that needed tending (I do need balsamic vinegar, but that’s something that should be a joy to discover here in France, not a must-do-today item on the checklist). So I hopped on a Velib and started biking towards Canal Saint-Martin, over the glorious Seine and through the small streets of the Marais. En route, it occurred to me that I should head up to the Parc des Buttes Chaumont. JP and Kyoko and Michael have all recently mentioned it. On such a pretty day, it made perfect sense.

The park is so un-Paris-like. It’s super hilly and on the verge of wild. Where else in this city do you see trees and hedges that haven't been touched by shears or shaping machines, much less the grass uncut?



The hills are enormous and offer gorgeous views.



The people, like the park, are a little more free-spirited and diverse.



Content with seeing this new part of the city, I walked down the hill through Belleville, a different route than the last time I was there.

I stumbled upon a graffiti artist adding color to the neighborhood.




A cute graffiti artist.



Lots of color.




Not your typical slice of Paris. But becoming so more each day.

Chocolate crémeux

Everyone who knows me knows how much I adored my old Creative Directors. I also knew and worked with Bruce’s wife, but never really knew her until she was in town these past few days for work. Now I adore her, too.

We had two fun nights of non-stop conversation and total French consumption: bottles of wine, overflowing bread baskets, filled-to-the-gills dinners. Last night, at Les Cotelettes, in addition to having the most delicious asparagus that has ever been sown, we ate chocolate crémeux for dessert.

Chocolate crémeux—qu’est-ce que c’est?? It was otherworldly. There was something in there that made it really special, but we couldn’t figure it out. Both the flavor and texture were light and fluffy, but also really rich and distinct. Was it mascarpone? Soy milk? Condensed milk? Chai tea? We asked the proprietor, but he was mum.

I Googled a few recipes, and some include star anise or coffee bean; all use egg yolks, heavy cream and sugar (naturally). One ingredient that came up a few times is gelatin. I’m thinking it could have been that. Or maybe it’s just best to leave it to that French je ne sais quoi.

Mad about Louis?

What is happening to me?? I went to LV today—I had to do some recon for work—and found myself pawing the merchandise. I’ve never even liked their stuff. Now I’m contemplating laying down the cash for a monogram bag. Maybe even the multicolored monogram. Dear god, help me!

Weather check: all over the place

The weather in Paris is like grandpa’s driving: likely to give you whiplash.

Sunday night, when I got home from Biarritz, it was so hot that I could barely sleep. Which lead to a dramatic lightening storm Monday night that cooled everything down.

By mid-week, it was downright chilly, and I had to scarf-up again.

This morning: glorious. A pitch-perfect sunny day. Except the fog and clouds have rolled in over the past two hours.

Square trees

Aesthetics are important in Paris.



And I love the Parisians' devotion to making things look just so.

Good people

I really love my colleagues. They’re such a sweet, goofy bunch.

The little things I love

• That there’s enough to say about fashion and beauty for Elle to come out weekly.
• The rooftops and chimneys—so distinctly Parisian.
• The way the scooter drivers tuck their mobiles into their helmets so they can talk while they drive. Mais, tres dangereux!
• The varieties of honeys and jams.
• How you can find utter silence in the middle of the city.

Rue Saint-Denis

When I moved into my apartment, I was a bit chagrined to realize that I’m right around the corner from rue Saint-Denis. Many people know this street, if not intimately, then by name and reputation. It’s where many sex shops, peep shows and prostitutes can be found.

But it was only this past week, when I walked north on rue Saint-Denis to find the less expensive produce market that my landlord told me about, that I really understood how relatively clean and modest my part of the street is. About two blocks north, middle-aged women with clownish makeup, plunging necklines and impossible haute talons leaned in doorways, looking both bored and hopeful. Wow. Middle-aged hookers a plenty! I was shocked.

But on my return from the market, the shock turned to awe.

There, I saw the largest fake breasts I’ve ever seen in my life. They were unfathomably large. Like, basketball-sized. Seriously. Of course my awe (and shameless staring) was mixed with sadness as this woman was old and had done so much cosmetic surgery to her face that she looked deformed. But still, I could not get over those breasts. How does your skin even stretch that much? How do you put on your shoes? In what position do you sleep? Can you zip up your jacket?