Catcalled

[Carrying on from yesterday.]

I’ll never get over these two:

It was getting late and the cemetery was going to close in about twenty minutes, so we headed towards the gate and towards the last memorial we wanted to see, which is renowned for its eccentricity–the tomb of Victor Noir. After he was shot, it is alleged that certain parts of his anatomy refused to die…if you get my message. So, local legend has it that you can literally rub off a bit of his virility onto yourself. Kiss him to find a lover, touch his toes to become pregnant. Touch other areas for pleasure. Let’s have Jessica demonstrate.

And now, the cemetery was closed and we were still in it. I wondered what would happen if one was locked in a really rather creepy cemetery all night long. Immediately a movie popped into my head and I am already seeing my first horror film play out in my mind–I smell a multimillion dollar blockbuster in the future. I doubt that filming is allowed here, though. We will just have to build a badass set.

With a bit of disappointment, we found the doors and were allowed to leave. I was prepped for a night of excitement and zombie rebirth, but that was not to be.

Jessica was feeling ill, so we headed back to the apartment. I did some grocery shopping while she rested and was amazed at how many English speakers were at Monoprix. There seems to be a massive tourist influx right now, it’s really rather annoying.

After I made dinner, another delicious serving of cheese ravioli, I read through my emails and saw that I had one of my newsletters about Parisian travel. It was all about the nightlife. When I lived here a few years ago and when I couldn’t sleep, I liked to wander around the streets working off my extra energy. It always helped me and I loved to see the city from a different perspective. So, I decided to head out again tonight.

At ten, I left and walked about the Marais. There were people all over the place mingling, riding bicycles, the sun hadn’t yet set. It doesn’t get truly dark until right around eleven. I love the Marais and all of the twisting nonsensical streets peppered with alleyways and roads that are literally ten feet long. As I was walking past a bar, I was catcalled! Me! I know!

I was walking along and I heard somebody shout out “Monsieur Lunettes! Monsieur Lunettes!” At first I thought, “What a funny last name to have. Mr. Glasses, indeed.” Then I thought, hey, I’m wearing glasses. I turned around, and across the street a man was waving at me. He smiled and said, “Je regarde ton cul.” (I’m looking at your ass.)

Not exactly sure how to respond to this compliment, I said, “D’accord,” (OK) and smiled. At that he said, “Je l’aime.” (I like it.) I thanked him and continued on my way, equal parts embarrassed and deeply flattered. That’s never happened to me before. I mean, I know I’m sexy, but I’m glad other people are realizing it as well.

I had to roll the waistband of my jeans, like a peasant, as I continued on because they kept sliding down. I will have to buy another pair when I get back home–I can’t stand pants that don’t fit.

I took the Métro and worked my way to the Place Vendôme. My newsletter said this is where the celebrities and fashionistas hang out, so I wasn’t entirely sure why I wasn’t there already! Unfortunately, I arrived too late because the place was deserted, but I had it all to myself!

As I stepped into the giant square, with the Ritz on one side, luxurious stores on the other, and the giant pillar in the center, I suddenly felt like Audrey Hepburn in the film Love in the Afternoon where she met a handsome businessman and hid fur coats in her cello case. I did a little twirl as I made my way to look in the brightly illuminated windows. People judge fashion harshly, saying it’s cruel and unnecessary, but people don’t seem to realize that fashion is art. Fashion is not reality, that is why magazines airbrush their models and encourage thinness. It is about creating a fantasy. Picasso said something like, he paints the world as he sees it in his head, not as he sees it. Fashion is like that–it’s all a beautiful, delicate dream. Just because we don’t all look like supermodels, myself excluded of course, doesn’t mean that we can’t take cues from the houses of luxury. I am endlessly annoyed when people protest Vogue or other fashion magazines. They are cultivating inspiration, not looking down on the masses.

I finally decided a while ago that my dream job is to be a fashion photographer. I love that world of beauty and illusion. I want to create it as much as I want to live it. So, because of my aspirations, I lost myself staring into the Chanel window looking at the fabric, the stitching, the details. I don’t know how long I stood there looking at the simply elegant dresses, the bracelets with the timelessly chic interconnected Cs. Heading out of the Place Vendôme, I walked down Rue Cambon.

This was like going to Mecca, for all of a sudden, there was the very first Chanel store at number 31. This is where Coco started it all with her hats and tomboyish clothes and then of course her perfumes. This is were American soldiers had lined up early in the morning for a free bottle of Chanel No. 5 after the liberation of Paris from the Nazis. This is where fashionistas of the past and present lurked. I loved every moment that I spent there.

I walked in a bit of a daydream, wondering if I could ever join that world. I hope so.

Along the way I saw a tattoo parlor. I have decided that I want to get one or two or a dozen sometime. But, not just any tattoo. I want to meet Karl Lagerfeld, have him sign my right bicep and then have it forever in ink. I would be Chanel, then. I have thought of many other tattoos, but I don’t really want barbed wire, a tribal something or other, or a cross. I want something truly me.

As it neared one o’clock, I decided that I had better head back home. I walked the quiet streets and found my bed and in a haze of glossy dreams and a smirk over being an object of sexual lust, I fell asleep.

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