Vignettes Parisian
Vignettes
Parisian is a collection of four short stories about the Author’s past and
present experiences in the French City of Love and Romance, commonly known as
Paris.
Christian Dior
Couturier Du Reve
It is
impossible not to have a close encounter with fashion when I am in Paris. Even if
I had to wait in the freezing cold for an hour and a half to enter the Christian
Dior Couturier Du Reve (Christian Dior
Couturier of Dreams) exhibition
at the Musée des Arts Décoratifs (Museum
of Decorative Arts). My husband, Walter, and I were the
lucky few who arrived early before the museum opened its doors. The late
arrivals were banished to the back of the queue for a five hours wait before
admission was granted.
This
spectacular exhibition was worth the wait. Not only were the lives, times, and
accomplishments of Christian Dior, one of the great French couturier and his
successors well documented, the exquisite
fashions and well-thought-out displays were equally impressive.
Since
my first visit in 1966 to the French capital of romance, luxury, and fashion, my
love for Paris has never waned. Before I
left sunny Maui, I had designed and made a haute couture gold, silver, and
black embossed velvet fleur-de-lis patterned coat to wear during my recent holiday
in France. It was at this exhibition that I received compliments for my one-of-a-kind
creation.
A
stranger approached me at the exhibition to buy the coat off my back because he
loved what I wore. Perhaps I should be the next designer to take over the reins
for this resplendent Maison – The House of Dior. After all, I am a knowledgeable
and seasoned fashion designer who knows every aspect of the international fashion
industry.
Shopping In
Paris (Then & Now)
I am one of those blessed
individuals with a pair of discerning eyes and can detect items I wish to
purchase in cramped spaces on my crazy shopping sprees. It was in such a
circumstance that Walter and I found ourselves in the middle of the crowded shopping
Avenue, des Champs Elysées.
A sole of my shoe had divorced
itself from the body of my long-lasting suedes and left me to hobble around
Paris like a circus clown with flapping feet. I had to take immediate action to
remedy this unanticipated situation before the remainder of my footwear
disintegrated onto the wet and soggy ground, while my beloved, sniggered at my
fashion malfunction.
I remembered an amusing incident
that happened in 1969 at this boulevard. Back then, I was a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed
fashion student. Accompanying Moi was Count Mario, an accomplished Vogue
fashion photographer, Andy, my model-looking lover and Valet, and Sammy, a flamboyant
young fashionista. The four of us were shopping at the avenue, that drizzly day.
To elongate his petite stature beneath
his wide bell-bottom jeans, Sammy wore a pair of eight inches high platform
shoes. He also donned a fitted denim jacket over a sassy body-hugging bodysuit.
To complete his eccentric ensemble, his dyed cornflower yellow, emerald, and turquoise
hair flowed behind him like an exotic mane as our quartet floated down the street.
Eyes turned in our direction as we
trotted around Paris in style. Before I realized what had transpired, Sammy was
flat on the pavement. Colorful socks bounced around him like raptured pom-poms.
The lad had stuffed pairs of rolled-up socks inside his footwear so he could fit
his tiny feet into the platforms. He had stumbled on the wet and slippery
sidewalk.
Mario, wasted no time whipping out
his camera to capture this unanticipated fashion faux pas, while Andy and I
looked on in shock.
As if modeling for a Vogue fashion
shoot, the quick-witted Sam posed this way and that on the wet thoroughfare while
the photographer clicked away at the gaffe. A pedestrian circle had formed in
the middle of Avenue des Champs Elysées to witness this “fashion happening.” Advertently,
our friend had transformed an embarrassing situation into a photo-opt as the
applauding crowd showered the boy with accolades. By the time Sammy got on his
feet, he had saved his face with poise and grace.
The Magical Power of The Written Word
“Why are there beds located at
different corners of the bookstore?” I asked Monsieur Mercier, an
assistant at the Shakespeare & Company bookshop.
“The beds are available for writers
to stay a night in Paris for free,” the man
responded before he resumed, “ Are you a writer? Do you intend
to stay the night?”
Surprised by the man’s inquiries, I
evinced, “I am a writer. But no thank
you to the lodging offer.”
“What genre of books do you write,
Monsieur?” Mercier queried.
“I’m an autobiographer,” I replied.
“Because of its controversial and
provocative contents, my books are often classified under the Erotica genre.”
The bookseller questioned, “What are the titles of your books, and what
is the author’s name?”
“A HAREM BOY’S SAGA; A MEMOIR BY YOUNG. It’s a
five-book series,” I declared.
“I believe we have your books in
the store. Are the titles: INITIATION, UNBRIDLED, DEBAUCHERY, TURPITUDE, and
METANOIA?” he promulgated.
I nodded, delighted by his
information.
The Frenchman led me through a
series of narrow pathways covered with volumes and pamphlets of the written
word. When he finally extracted five volumes of my autobiography from a shelf,
my heart nearly leaped out of my chest.
“I read the series. What a
compelling teenage life you’ve led. I wish my school had a secret fraternity
program like yours,” the teller quipped smilingly.
He recommenced,
“Our store is a focal point of English literature in Paris. Anais Nin, Henry
Miller, and Richard Wright are frequent visitors. We also host literary
activities, like poetry readings, writers’ meetings, book readings, writing
festivals, literature festivals, photography workshops, writing groups, and
Sunday tea.
“Ms. Sylvia Whitman, the owner, might
invite you for a book reading at our store.”
“That will be splendid.
Unfortunately, my husband and I are in Paris for a short period. Maybe we can
arrange a book reading and signing session when we are in Paris again,” I proposed.
Monsieur Mercier and I had exchanged
contact information before I left the Shakespeare & Company bookshop.
Hopefully, during my next visit to Paree, I will get to meet Madam Sylvia
Whitman with a book reading and signing gig in place.
S.O.W. and
R.E.A.P.
Over the years, I have been asked
by many, “Why do you love Paris so
much?” My reply is always the same – S.O.W.
Although the Parisian cityscape has
changed over the years, these three alphabets continue to shadow my existence
whenever I am in or out of Paris. S.O.W. is also a reason Walter and I chose
France as our home away from home.
In the autumn of 1966, when the Simorgh
(one of my Arab patriarch’s private jet) touched down in Charles de Gaulle
airport, I had contracted the romance bug. Back then, the ebullient Moi,
an inquisitive teenager with a quest for adventure, was whisked to the Paris
Ritz Carlton in a luxurious Bentley by my host, Prince P. I had fallen
head-over-heels in love and in awe with both the prince, Andy, my then chaperone
and Valet, and Paris, the city of romance. That was before our entourage visited
the haute couture fashion Houses of Chanel, Dior, Ungaro, Givenchy, Yves Saint Laurent,
Patou, and the fancy eateries, such as Café de Flore, La Belle Époque, Maxim’s,
and last but by no means least, Le Folies Bergers. Back then, these infamous
Parisian establishments were places to go, to see and be seen. Nowadays, they are
tourist attractions.
Through
the subsequent years, I had accompanied many princes, princesses, sheiks,
sheikas, and their aristocratic Arabian entourages to the French capital. Most significantly,
this city of love and romance had taught me the art of Seduction (S), Originality (O), and Wit (W). Some may say that wittiness
is a congenital trait, but I purport it as a learned art of human
relationships. Whatever definition one chooses to use, I had returned to this
electrifying metropolis of S.O.W.; where I had sown many a wild oat. Now,
with my beloved husband in tow, I’m here to R.E.A.P. its rewards.
“What the hell is R.E.A.P.?” you ask.
I will explain:
R – Romance
continues to exist in this alluring Capital of Love; even amid an influx of
foreign refugees and political upheavals. Another series of stories, I will
narrate another time.
E – Elegance
in this sordid city of high culture is a trait Walter and I find irresistibly
seductive.
A – Authenticity
is historicity in this Center of Romance. And I am not referring to the faux
reproduction of the Las Vegas ‘Paris’ in Nevada, United States of America.
P – Paris
equals Sophistication, Originality, Wit, Romance, Elegance, and Authenticity.
But last and by no means least, this French capital is where Perfection
reigns supreme.
PARIS – Mon
Paree!
