Well now.
BW and I decide to go our separate ways today. He down to the Eiffel Tour and about to take pictures, me to Rue St. Honoré to shop. What a nice plan!
I'm a little nervous as Paris is set up more or less like D.C., and I can never find my way around D.C. But I have a map, and I see that I need only walk up to the Champs Elysee, angle over on Washington, and I should hit the corner of my destination. And indeed I do.
I have to pay attention, and pick out landmarks, as the street angles a few times. But it's a gorgeous day and I'm set for what should be a long walk.
To begin it's mostly antique shops and salons, but the window views are wonderful. Elegant and sophisticated, and the further I go, the more—it seems—the air is rarified. I see lots of tourists window-shopping, and the more serious shoppers among them. I wander and stop, wander and stop. The jewelry stores shine, but I think of my guy in NY and know I'd feel like I was committing jewelry adultery—plus even my high tolerace level is slammed a bit with sticker shock. But boy, what pretty sights.
My first serious venture is into Roberto Cavalli (I think that's right). I see a fabulous brown leather jacket in the window. Snug, with deliberate soft drapes down the front on either side of a wide zipper. Terrific details and workmanship. I go in, browse and find another I love—sort of python in several shades of brown. Slightly more blazer style, but short, with a bit of flare at the hem.
I find the first on a rack, and oh God, the leather is like butter. But it's a size 6. The clerk tells me to try it anyway, but it's too small, in the shoulders and certainly in the hips. She goes for an 8. I get that on, and it's gorgeous, but too tight. She insists it's meant to be worn tight. I don't think it's flattering on my body type, and she goes for a 10. This certainly fits at the hips, but it's too big in the shoulders, the arms, and still at the rib cage I feel like I'm wearing a corset. But no, Olga insists again, it's meant to be tight. Maybe, but I'd never wear it if I can't breathe in it.
So I try on the second style, which I actually like better on. But again, size 6, and I'm by God an 8. No, no, no it's perfect, Olga says. It's not, and if they'd had an 8, it would've been, and would now be mine. However much I coveted this jacket, if I'm going to plunk down that many Euros, it has to fit like a glove, not a straight jacket. LOL.
So I move on. I'm enjoying myself tremendously. It's all so pretty and Parisian and haute couture. But mostly, not my life style. Still it's fun to wander into the main Hermes store and look at handbags that go for 3 and 4 thousand Euros. I'd be terrified to use one!
I spot a cashmere sweater—cardigan style with a high neck if you button it all the way. In the window it's gray on one side, pink on the other. Not my color, but I bet they have others. And I pop in to see they have one in two yummy shades of green. Very pale and very rich. The cost is a little oh-la-la, but this I'll think about. If I don't find anything else that grabs me, I'll go back.
I slide into Versache, Valentino, Chanel. Wowzer. Prada and so on. I drool on Cartier's windows. I see a woman shopping in sky-high heels and capris. How can she do this? My feet are killing me after an hour walking in comfortable shoes.
I'm coming up the other side of the street, and hit a barricade where a cute young guard explains I can't walk by this building, but must cross the street. So I obey, and find myself standing at the open door of the cashmere store.
It was meant to be.
Again, it's size 6. What's up with that? But Phillipe assures me they will have my size in one of the other stores. Please to try on my size in another color. I do, and I'm sunk. It's like wearing a soft, warm cloud. And he explains it's a twin set and don't I want the shell. I suppose I do. While I'm admiring and trying on, he confirms they have my size elsewhere, and will happily deliver my purchase to my hotel. How can I say no?
Meanwhile, the female clerk brings over a gorgeous pale green cashmere scarf to tempt me. I'm easy bait now, and take all three pieces. They won't take up much room in the luggage.
I know I've done the right thing when I walk out with a big, fat smile on my face and a spring to my step. I'm heading back, strolling and see a store that boasts the best shawls in the world. We'll see about that. I want one particularly for this black dress I bought a couple months ago. And there, in the little empty store, I see just the thing. It's silvery strings of material between two transparent pieces of silver gauze. I just love it, and play with it awhile.
A gentlemen come in, orange scarf tied jauntily around his neck, and apologizes for leaving me along. Pas de quoi, and I want this. He makes perhaps his easiest sale of the day and I leave with a little, weightless shopping bag.
I take what I know is a little shortcut back—proud of myself for not getting lost. I'm sort of hoping it takes me past the shops I saw last night after dinner, where a pair of boots called my name. But no. I see where they are as I approach the hotel, but I need the loo and some rest for my feet. I'll go back.
BW isn't back yet, so I eat one of the daily amenities—a little piece of ginger cake. Ummmm. I have a glass of champagne on the terrace, with my feet up and bask in the sunshine.
If BW isn't back soon, I may venture out again.
He would've hated pretty much every minute of it, but I had a lovely, lovely couple of hours on my own in Paris.