My heart skips a beat when I think about Saturday. Simon and I are going to spend the whole day together! His family is arriving Friday night for the weekend, and Tristan said he didn’t mind if Simon skipped his ice dancing competition to hang out with me.
I’m allowed to bring a guest to the Flash party, and Simon’s already said yes. I’m planning to wear a dress I made specially for it. It’s a twin of the one I made Becca for her birthday, only mine’s not dove gray; it’s the same creamy white as Sacré-Coeur.
After dinner Gigi and I get dressed and put on comfortable shoes, then take the elevator down to the lobby to meet Sophie’s grandfather. We find him sitting on one of the enormous red sofas reading a newspaper called Le Monde. He brightens when he sees us, and offers his arm to my grandmother as the three of us head out. I get that giddy feeling again because Gigi is right: Paris is gorgeous at night.
We walk and walk and walk, across the Place de la Concorde and down to the Seine, the river that flows through the center of the city, dividing it into the Left Bank and the Right Bank. We stroll along the riverbank past the Tuileries gardens and on to the Louvre, where we gawk—well, I gawk, Gigi and Monsieur de Roches have seen it before—at the Pyramide in the courtyard of the Louvre, the famous giant glass pyramid thing that’s lit up at night. I’ve seen it in a couple of movies, but the real thing is even more awesome. Some of the fashion shows will be held here, and I can’t wait to see it from the inside.
From there we hop on the Metro, a subway kind of like the T in Boston, and head to the Arc de Triomphe, this huge stone arch in the center of a traffic circle that has streets sticking out of it like spokes on a wheel.
“Mesdames, may I interest you in une petite aventure?” says Monsieur de Roches, whipping three tickets out of his pocket.
Gigi squeals. Right there in public, she actually squeals. I don’t know whether to be embarrassed or just go with the moment. I decide to go with the moment.
“We must hurry, though,” he says, checking his watch. He herds us inside the base of the arch, where we take the elevator up a ways, then climb a narrow staircase to emerge on the top.
The view is beyond amazing.
“That’s the Champs-Élysées,” says Gigi, clutching my arm and pointing at the broad boulevard directly beneath us. She’s as breathless as I am.
No one needs to tell me what the enormous glowing structure is off to its right. The Eiffel Tower! We can see it in the distance from our hotel room, but from up here, at night, all lit up like this, it’s the glowing golden punctuation mark in I’m in Paris!
Out of the corner of my eye I see Sophie’s grandfather check his watch. He and Gigi exchange a glance and smile at each other, like they have a secret. A moment later he nudges me and whispers, “Regarde!”
A spotlight emerges from the top of the tower and sweeps the city in a circle, and then—magic.
“Oh wow!” I gasp, watching in delight as thousands of lights flash randomly up and down the tower’s length and across the arch at its base. From a distance, it’s like millions of fireflies shimmering against the black velvet of the night sky.
“Some light show, huh?” says Gigi proudly, as if perhaps she designed it. She puts her arm around my shoulders and pulls me close. “Welcome to Paris, sweetheart.”
“Did I not tell you?” says Monsieur de Roches with a wink. “Our city, she is sparkling just for you.”
I smile. Sophie’s grandfather is kind of corny, but I can’t help but like him.
By the time we get back to the hotel, Gigi is yawning. She goes right to bed but I’m still kind of awake, buzzing from all the sights and sounds, so I take my laptop in the bathroom and work on a quick blog post.
Reader, I’m in Paris!
Ooo lá lá, Fashionista Jane is here for fashion week. She’s staying at a palace (literally) and promises to share with you the very best that Paris has to offer. The best shopping tips, the best behind-the-scenes peeks at all the best shows (she has carte blanche VIP access, thanks to Flashlite magazine), and of course, what Fashionista Jane post would be complete without a little snark? Fashion Faux Pas, Paris edition, coming up! Au revoir until tomorrow!
I upload a few of the best photos I took today, link to Flashlite’s website, and post it. When I’m done, I check to see if Simon’s online. He’s not. I send him an e-mail instead, letting him know that we’ve arrived safely and that I can’t wait to see him next weekend. I send my parents an e-mail as well, and include the picture of the Eiffel Tower all lit up.
Becca has sent me a quick note, letting me know she had a great trip on the train and is being dragged all over Minneapolis by her grandmother and that she loves loves LOVES the dress I made her.
Smiling with satisfaction, I power down my laptop and brush my teeth. When I slip into bed, I nearly slide out the other side. The sheets are smooth as silk. Fit for a palace, I think, smiling to myself in the dark.
I’m in Paris!
The next morning I pick out my clothes very carefully. For one thing, it’s not every day that a person has a breakfast meeting with the editor-in-chief of Flash magazine and her style editor assistant. For another, I don’t want to be guilty of some horrible fashion faux pas and end as up the centerpiece of my own blog. Or worse, someone else’s blog. I decide on black leggings topped with an oversize white shirt and denim bomber jacket. Add sunglasses and a belt, and it’s very urban chic.
“Megan DARLING!” says Wolfgang a little later, as we come through the door of Angelina’s. He swoops down on us like some sort of enormous crane, one that bestows air kisses. “And the utterly fabulous GIGI!” Wolfgang is tall and skinny and irresistible, and as always he’s dressed from head to toe in black. Beside him, Isabelle d’Azur, the orange-haired editor-in-chief, looks like a tiny parrot. “I can think of no BETTER way to start Fashion Week than breakfast with our FAVORITE teen blogger, can you, Isabelle?”
“Absolutely not,” she says, bestowing more air kisses. “We saw your blog post this morning—it’s just perfect!”
“You’re already driving beaucoup Web traffic to the Flashlite site,” Wolfgang informs me, sounding pleased.
“Thank you,” I reply. “Or maybe I should say merci.”
“My granddaughter is taking French now at school,” Gigi tells them proudly.
We settle into chairs at a table by a large mural. The room is divided by elaborately carved archways, and overhead, the skylit ceiling radiates soft light. The waitress brings us a menu, but Wolfgang waves it away. “There’s only ONE thing to order when one breakfasts at La Maison Angelina,” he declares. “Les croissants et les chocolats chauds l’Africains pour tout, s’il vous plaît.”
I shoot my grandmother a questioning look.
“Utterly divine hot chocolate,” she whispers. “Trust Wolfgang; he’s right.”
“Of course I’m right,” he says, then pats his tummy, which is nonexistent because Wolfgang is thin as a pencil. “But we only indulge when in Paris, oui?”
“Oui,” agrees Isabelle.
My grandmother is looking around, and I can tell she’s busy taking mental notes on our surroundings. She’ll probably end up redecorating Pies & Prejudice when we get home. “Coco Chanel used to come here,” she says happily. “Maybe she even sat at this table.”
The hot chocolate, when it arrives, is unlike any I’ve ever seen before. We each have our own pitcher and teacup, for starters, along with individual bowls of whipped cream. I take a picture of everything first—“for my blog,” I explain—and I also e-mail it to my mother, just to torture her a little since I know she’ll be horrified. This would rank right up there with ice cream sundaes on her list of “Things Not to Have for Breakfast.” The cocoa is thick and creamy, somewhere between chocolate syrup and hot fudge sauce, and it smells incredible. I pour myself a cup, then spoon a generous amount of whipped cream on top and take a sip.
“Was I right or was I right?” asks Wolfgang as I let out a groan.
&nb
sp; I nod vigorously. “I wish I could dive in, it’s so good!”
He looks pleased. “So, we’ll see you this afternoon at Chanel, correct?” he asks, and Gigi and I both nod. “And then you are headed to Bix after that?”
“Uh-huh.” I’m really looking forward to that one. Not that I’m not looking forward to the Chanel collection—I am, especially since Chanel is Gigi’s favorite design house—but Bix is a young, up-and-coming fashion designer and I’m dying to see her work.
After breakfast—if you can call it that, since it was more like dessert—we spend the rest of the morning walking. I’m glad I wore comfortable shoes. Gigi’s in high heels, of course, but it’s all I can do to keep up with her as she taps briskly along the sidewalk of the Rue de Rivoli, pausing to peek in the windows of all the fancy designers whose salons dot its length. We walk for what feels like forever.
“This is how Frenchwomen stay so slim,” Gigi tells me. “Everyone walks everywhere in Paris.”
has my mother been to this city, I wonder? She would totally approve.
I certainly don’t mind walking. It’s another gorgeous day, and it’s so much easier to get a feel for a city on foot. The energy here in Paris is totally different from Boston or New York. It’s hard to describe—less frantic, maybe, but still vibrant and alive.
After a couple of hours of window shopping, Gigi hails us a taxi for our lunch meeting at Bébé Soleil’s flagship store.
“Megan Wong! Madame Chen! C’est un plaisir,” says Madame Simone, the director, greeting us at the door. The shop is just as I imagined it from Gigi’s pictures, from the brightly colored garments that burst from the racks and shelves like bouquets to the cheerful orange-and-cream paint scheme to the mural on the back wall of a stylized sun shining on a garden full of flowers that are actually babies.
“In honor of your visit today, we have created a special display,” says Madame Simone, leading me to a table placed prominently by the main counter. “Aha! I see that you like it.”
Like it? I’m grinning from ear to ear and so is Gigi. The tiny mannequins are dressed in the vivid overalls and pinafore-style dresses, all made from traditional Chinese fabric, that have become my signature line. I take a bunch of pictures to show off to my friends back home. I’ll figure out a way to give the shop a plug on Fashionista Jane, too, without revealing my identity. My mother’s one stipulation was that the blog remain anonymous.
Madame Simone introduces me to her staff, Kiki and Marie-Claire and Giselle, and we all pose for pictures together, then Gigi and I poke around for a bit. We pick out an outfit each for Chloe, Maggie, and Trevor, the Crandall’s new baby, and then it’s time for lunch.
“I hope you have brought some new concepts with you,” Madame Simone says, as we follow her to a bistro down the street. “Your designs are very popular.”
I show her what I’ve been working on—I’m branching out into more things for boys, for instance, and noodling with a range of little dresses with puffed sleeves and retro smocking for girls. She’s very enthusiastic about everything, which is reassuring. Before I know it, it’s time for Gigi and me to grab a taxi back to the hotel and get ready for the afternoon fashion shows.
Gigi changes into one of her favorite black Chanel suits, accessorized with pearl rope necklace and pearl earrings. I swap my urban chic look for something a little more polished, exchanging the leggings and layers for a short black skirt, a vintage floral chiffon button-down shirt I found this morning in a tiny shop on Avenue Montaigne, and black heels, since we won’t be doing any more walking. I throw on a cropped black leather jacket I found at Sweet Repeats in Boston, make sure I have my camera and sketchbook stowed in my black hobo bag, then follow Gigi down to the lobby and into yet another taxi. It takes us past the Tuileries gardens—now blooming with huge tents where more shows will be taking place all week—to the Louvre, where Wolfgang is waiting outside the entrance. He whisks us past the velvet ropes and crush of media and curious onlookers, through the security checkpoint, and into the gallery beneath the glass pyramid.
The venue is perfect for Chanel—classy, elegant, and filled with light. Down the center of the gallery, a raised catwalk has been set up. We find our seats in the row right behind Isabelle and Wolfgang and I look around me, trying not to grin too broadly. No point giving myself completely away as the new girl on the block. Beside me, Gigi is settling in with the air of a veteran.
I take out my camera and wait, looking around at the crowd. No fashion faux pas here, that’s for sure. From what I can tell, it’s a mishmash of fashion elite, journalists, and wealthy patrons, including a sprinkling of movie stars. Or at least I think they’re stars, because I sort of recognize them behind their huge sunglasses. I try not to stare.
A few minutes later the music starts. Gigi grabs my hand. “Here we go,” she whispers.
I get that giddy feeling again as a whoosh of mist blows in from offstage. The music accelerates, its pounding beat matching the racing of my heart. This is the most exciting thing I’ve ever done in my life. Every eye in the gallery is fixed on the large rippling silver curtain at the far end of the catwalk with the designer’s trademark interlocked C’s projected on it. As the first model emerges from behind it in another cloud of mist, a collective sigh goes up from the audience—her dress is gorgeous, all blue sparkles and bare shoulders. She has an enormous blue plume of a feather in her hair, which is either teased or a wig because it’s about two feet high. It’s crazy, but somehow it looks perfect.
Close on her heels comes another model, and then another and another in a steady stream of mind-boggling designs. It’s quickly apparent that the color of the season is blue, because the women are dressed in every shade of it, from an inky navy to the sheerest, palest sky to bright robin’s egg and aquamarine. Also in vogue are luxe fabrics—satins, velvets, silks—to contrast the heavier woolens and tweeds of the fall line.
I snap pictures of outfit after outfit, from überglamorous minis to tailored menswear-inspired ensembles to form-fitting jackets over floor-length, body-hugging dresses. Big, stand-up boatnecks are in. So are ruffles, and a touch of sparkle and shimmer. Even the so-called important pieces – the fall coats and trousers and jackets—have feminine touches like nipped-in waists and belted backs and velvet trim on the pockets and lapels, which I know will thrill my grandmother no end. She’s not a big fan of menswear look-alikes.
Some of the styles are over-the-top, like the coat with the enormous balloon sleeves and a dress that’s so puffy it almost looks like a bath mat. The skinny little model who’s wearing it looks lost. My favorite piece of the show is a sleeveless art deco–style flapper dress with a deep V-neck, a wide, beaded band in a slightly darker shade of blue under the bust and an identical one low across the hips. Slim vertical pleats give the torso substance, but the hemline wafts away below the knee in a flutter of sheer chiffon. It’s exquisite, and the sheer beauty and artistry of it embodies everything I love about fashion. The Asian model who’s wearing it looks like an older, much more glamorous version of me, and I can totally picture myself wearing it. Not that I’d have any reason to—it’s hardly the type of dress you’d wear to a dance at Alcott High, not even prom. But still, it’s dreamy. I snap a picture to pin on the bulletin board in my sewing room at home.
Thirty minutes later the show finishes to a standing ovation. A man with a silver ponytail dressed all in black comes out and takes a bow. It’s Karl Lagerfeld! I snap photos of him and of everybody else, too—the models, the designers, the crowd, even the photographers who are taking pictures of the crowd. You never know what will come in handy for my blog, plus I don’t ever want to forget a second of my very first Fashion Week show.
I’ve hardly had time to process what I’ve just seen before Wolfgang propels Gigi and me upstairs and into another taxi. He barks an address to the driver, then waves us off.
“See you tonight!” he calls as we drive away.
“See you tonight!” we chorus back.
Fifteen minutes later the taxi deposits us at a completely different venue—a graffiti-covered warehouse in an industrial neighborhood. I guess being a younger, edgier designer, Bix decided to choose an up-and-coming place to showcase her designs.
We have to jostle the crowd for seats at this show, which aren’t reserved the way they were at Chanel. I lead Gigi to a spot on a riser and we sit down just as the music starts to blare. It’s very techno, with strobe lights and a thumping beat. You can feel the energy in the room as the audience’s excitement builds. Then the lights stop flashing and the first model appears. She has impossibly long legs that begin beneath a pouf of a pink skirt and end in flirty pink heels. While the bottom half of her ensemble is all feminine, the top is like something out of a robot movie, with an asymmetrical silver metallic jacket and silver hoop earrings the size of dinner plates. She’s bald, except for severe black bangs. She looks completely bizarre, but in a totally cool way.
The next model is dressed in tartan shorts and fishnet tights with a matching tartan jacket, and is wearing what looks like a pizza box on her head. She’s like a character from some over-the-top Broadway show. I take her picture, along with ones of a gold lamé trench coat over a gypsy skirt and heavy black boots worn by a model with a retro-punk green Mohawk; a menswear-influenced sequined tux; and a knee-length wisp of a lavender kimono worn with a cowboy hat.
It’s intoxicatingly different and fun. I can tell my grandmother thinks so too, even though the designs are probably way out of her comfort zone. Her eyes are shining in that Gigi way they do when she’s happy, and she’s tapping her expensive shoes in time to the synthesized beat.
Because we don’t have to rush off to another show afterward, we linger for a while, and I manage to interview Bix briefly for my blog. I guess the credentials hanging around my neck help, because when I call out her name in the crowd, I see her eyes flicker down to my Flash press tag and then back to my face.
“Oui?” she says.
“I just want to ask what your main influence is?” I shout, hoping to be heard about the crowd. And hoping she speaks English.
Wish You Were Eyre Page 23
