A vingtage gem in the heart of the Marais

Nestled away on a tiny cobblestone street in the Marais district of Paris, La Belle Époque is a vintage gem. The small intimate space overflows with to-die-for vintage pieces from the ‘40s through the ‘80s, all in mint condition. The owner, a former model and costumier named Philippe, charms you from the moment you step through door, grabbing clothes he thinks would look good on you. Chances are they will. The tiny shop can feel a bit cramped, but combing through the racks is half the fun. Uncovering an Yves Saint Laurent jumpsuit or the perfect black dress from a little-known French designer is sure to set your heart aflutter. The shop is too small for a full dressing room, but there’s an antique screen to change behind, with Philippe at the ready to help zip you into a dress or grab a different ensemble. Prices vary but be prepared to pay top dollar (or euro) for the real treasures.

RATING: Worth crossing the ocean for

La Belle Epoque
10, rue du Poitou
75003 Paris

Copper Coffee Pot or the Day I fell in Love with New York

I’m back in New York after spending a week back in Wisconsin with my family. It was an interesting week because Cancer, with a capital C, was all around me (phone calls, flowers, cards, “visits”, appointments) and yet cancer, personal and scary, was kept at arms length. I focused on meal plans and recipes and my mom was still brilliantly my mom. Not sure if that makes any sense but that’s all I can say about it for the moment.

So, this past Saturday was my first day back in the city and I needed to run a few errands. I’ve been waging a war with my coffee maker and the impetuous machine won in a hot-water-and-grinds spewing flurry. I was on my way to K-mart and stumbled upon a street fair on 10th, with antiques, vintage clothing, and jewelry. A jazz band was playing, the sun was out, the scene was damn near perfect. I found a little copper coffee pot and four copper cups for $15. It looked perfect for camping, a very well-outfitted excursion. But alas, I forced myself to leave the romantic little set behind because of my complete lack of income at the moment. I meandered down the rest of the street, enjoying the eccentrics and fashionistas and peddlers doing the same.

On my return trip from K-mart, with new coffee maker in tow, I decided to play a little game. If the coffee set was still there, then it was destined to be mine and I’d shell out the $15. I walked down the street feeling quite sure that someone would have snapped it up, being that it was in excellent condition. But as I approached the stand I realized that it was still there, still looking charmingly pioneering. I inquired with the stand’s two tenders and they both seemed rather in love with the set too. They packaged it up for me with the greatest of care and appreciation, and I went on my way feeling like I had stumbled upon the greatest treasure.

august

well, i finally quit my job. it was just over a week ago when i walked out of that prison, down madison avenue under a blue sky, feeling like a free bird. by the time i got back to my apartment though the sky had gone dark and it was starting to rain. my boyfriend and i hopped in a cab to a mexican restaurant we had never been and we got drunk in the middle afternoon to celebrate. the night took many winding twists but i remember feeling like i was finally going to live the life i imagined and be free and artistic and happy.

then the next day came. turns out that the day i quit my job is the day my mom found out she has cancer. now nothing seems right with the world. and my mind is consumed with far greater worries than coming up with a good tag line. 

so i do not have a job and my  mom has cancer. there is no floor. things just keep falling out from under me. i can’t say much more than that.

go to your happy place

man, this blog is neglected… i feel like some sort of blog social services department is going to come shut me down.

it’s gotten a lot hotter in new york since my last post, and a lot more complicated. i’m trying to get up the balls to quit my job and dive head first into unemployment. i didn’t fare that well the first time, but i’m hoping it was because that joblessness was imposed on me and not self-imposed. and because it was the ides of march.

so i’ve been trying to conjure up some ’safe places’ for my mind to go when things get dark. You know, like they tell you to do at the doctor’s office when you’re about to get a shot. Actually, for total transparency, I had to do this recently in the ER for an unexplained brain spasm. the man nurse told me to ‘go to a happy place’ while i got my head scanned by a giant machine…and the whole thing struck me as having a greater purpose.

the odd thing is that my brain surprised me with where it went when ‘happy place’ was called up – not the sunny tropical beach or exotic locale that i was anticipating. instead two memories that probably never would have resurfaced:

first one is back to when i was studying in france. I spent a day exploring new areas of the city and ended up at the Musee D’orsay, impressionist floor. As a slowly wandered the room, reading the blurbs on the wall explaining the Manets and Degas, I saw a very stylish French grandmother with her adorably French grandson. As they circled the room, she explained every piece to him. I only picked up bits and pieces of what she was saying, but it seemed so wonderful. Like the epitome of culture. Why France is superior to America. All playing out right before my eyes.

the second ‘happy place’ memory is about as unrelated to the first as could be. I’m back in Wisconsin where I grew up, and it’s summer and I’m about 7. the age when being out of school for the summer feels like an eternity, and every day is a perfect blend of adventure and boredom. on most of summer days if the weather was right, my mom would take me, my siblings and our neighborhood posse down to the pool.  And i can remember seeing big trucks overflowing with green beans heading out of town, going to “factory”. And those big trucks of green beans symbolized the heart of summer. The way tossled corn signaled the end. And i miss those signs. really connected to earth and nature. i love new york, but here my signs are artificial and man-made. so my happy place goes to simpler times when i could look out the window and see a bean truck and know that all was right with the world.

I’m going to keep exploring these memories. Hopefully more random, ‘happy place’ thoughts come to the surface to get me through the road ahead. And I want to hear other people’s unexpected ‘happy place thoughts’.  because i’m curious to know if other people’s brains take them to deep, forgotten places. And because i never have anyone comment on my wall. share….

The smell of freshly baked donuts

I was on my way home from work the other night, heading east down 14th street from Union Square, and I found myself smiling because it was still light out at 8:00 p.m., and because the trees were in bloom when just weeks before they were skeletons.

And then as I approached Dunkin Donuts, the most delicious smell came wafting through the air. Freshly baked donuts. Damn, that really made me smile. I’ve had the pleasure to catch this smell on a few other occasions and I’ve always considered it my own special treat — like the city saying “Keep going, it’s going to be okay.” So I strolled past the store, grinning like an idiot, and taking in my private moment of donut zen.

Then I hit the corner and was stopped by a red light. I noticed the guy in front of me was shoving the last bit of a Dunkin Donut jelly roll into his mouth. I thought to myself “the smell got him too” but then a dark thought crept into my head. What if their special smell wasn’t just for me but was one giant marketing scheme to drive traffic during the slow evening hours… My grin faded.

Then the guy, who happened to be standing next to his mother, dropped his Dunkin Donut wrapper on the ground. Blatantly littering even though the garbage can was not 2 feet away. I was so disgusted, I could feel the disgust radiate out of me towards him. His mother must have intercepted some of my disgust because she leaned down and picked it up. This made me want to punch the stupid grown man in the face because his mother shouldn’t still have to clean up after him. Plus he ruined my moment of donut zen.

A couple of nights later I was walking home from the Union Square stop around 8:00 and that delicious donut smell got me again. I couldn’t resist looking in the window to see if there was actually some baking going on, and I was relieved to see baking racks. My faith in the donut zen smell was restored.

The Spitter, my muse

By some ironic twist of fate, i found myself sharing a cab with none other than The Spitter yesterday. Yes, just me and The Spitter of Park Avenue fame. We were both heading to the same Derby party and decided that splitting cab fare and not having to arrive solo was better than the alternative. I was skeptical but also a little thrilled to get to observe The Spitter some more.

And I must say, I think I have found my muse. The Spitter is an endless font of random, uncensored and hilarious anecdotes. While heading crosstown through the Park, he told me about his good fortune of getting to live in a sick apartment for 3 months without having to pay a dime of rent. Some family connection involving an older lady and a rich German investment banker (only in New York…and yet never to me…)

He explained how his neighbors were snooty and old and thought he made too much noise. He told me how the doorman knew him by name but that it was not a friendly relationship. Every night when The Spitter enters the building he says to the doorman, ‘Hey man, how’s it going?’ And every night the doorman replies, ‘Quiet’. Or some variation, like ‘It’s been a quiet night’ or  ’It’s pretty quiet around here’.

The Spitter said he knew this was a subtle message for him not disturb the peace.  His snooty neighbors must have passed on a message to the doorman to keep The Spitter in line.  Brilliantly snarky! Speaks volumes about New York. Ahh, man. You can’t make this shit up.

The rest of the afternoon involved many mint juleps and lots of men wearing pink and girls wearing ridiculous hats (including myself). My horse came in dead last but it only added to the irony of the day. LOVE IT!

 

 

I’m Mad as Hell and I’m not going to take it anymore

some background for the lone reader out there who doesn’t know me personally:

i was working for a start-up. the job was awesome. i actually didn’t mind going into work. the days went fast. fridays came fast. the company folded. i was cool with it. then i wasn’t. i suffered a mild melt-down. took a shitty job so that i could avoid dealing with harsh reality of unemployment in big cold city. hate job. hate co-workers. feel like desperate high school outcast. i have ‘unpopular’ opinions. feel my soul rotting as i stare at excel spreadsheets. i sit in a dark corner next to a loud generator. regret ever taking job. want to quit in a wild ‘fuck you’ send up. this could happen tomorrow. or friday. or as soon as i get another paycheck in my grubby hands. but there will be no 2-week notice. i promise that much. one word: karma.

so tonight i drink my shitty wine. but today was a breaking point. expect an explosion of Network-like proportions.

Disco Ball on the Move

While walking home this past Friday night, a seedy little man passed me carrying a spectacular disco ball. He wasn’t laughing or carrying on. He moved with purpose and great intensity. I got the impression that whatever he was doing with a giant sparkling disco ball, it wasn’t something to be taken lightly. I wanted to go where he was going. I wanted to be a part of that mystery. But he moved so quickly, it was impossible to keep up. He faded into the night, out of site. I was left longing for that disco-era underworld.

My friend has a bit of a drug problem

This past Saturday my friend caught word that her roommate’s friend’s friend was having a birthday party at his daddy’s Park Avenue apartment. It was begging to be crashed. I was already having visions of myself getting inappropriately drunk and waking the next morning sprawled out on an Oriental rug with empty bottles of champagne around me.

My boyfriend and I arrived two ticks past midnight. Our friends were already there, dressed in gym clothes. They had started drinking after a devastating loss in touch football earlier in the day and decided that a trek downtown to change wasn’t worth it. Seeing them was a ridiculous study in juxtoposition — orange sweats and hoodies next to Gossip Girls with perfect hair and that rich girl sheen.

We took up residence in the corner with the remaining cans of Coors Light and a bottle of Jameson. The scene was so subdued I wanted to scream. I thought rich kids were supposed to be wild drug addicts? The extent of their partying consisted of drinking directly out of a bag of red wine that they had extracted from a box. I popped an Adderall and watched as they passed the ‘udder’ around.

I was wondering when we’d be “found out” — when the jig would be up. Some chick (let’s call her ‘Long Island’) plopped her ass down next to my friend in the orange sweats and asked her how she knew the guy having the party. My friend explained the situation quite diplomatically and ‘Long Island’ could only fire back with a question about the gym attire. While we dodged that bullet, I was quickly realizing that the guy next to me was going to be the real problem. He kept spitting on this crazy expensive rug.

At first I thought he was just going to be sick and needed to be dragged to the bathroom asap. But he said he felt fine and continued to spit on this rug. I don’t care where you are, but you can’t just keep spitting on someone’s rug. So I asked him what was up and he said that it was some sort of nervous compulsion and I felt bad for confronting him but still something needed to be said.

And then the party was clearing out and suddenly I look up and we’re the last people at this party. The birthday boy looked absolutely terrified of us. The Spitter kid was M.I.A. but we figured he was just up on the roof smoking a cigarette so we had to hang around. Finally we got word that he had just bolted so we were ready to make our grand exit. I threw on my red plaid jacket and approached ‘birthday boy’ to apologize for overextending our welcome. And for some reason, in a way of explaining our continued presence, said ‘I’m sorry but our friend has a bit of a drug problem.’

The kid’s eyes widened and ‘Long Island’ emerged out of nowhere to come to his aid. And we hopped in the elevator that opened directly to his living room and laughed our asses off the whole way down.