Sunbleacht

  • 36 hours in Paris

    Arriving at Fashion Week in the back of a moving truck; thanks,Vogue!

    I had planned a trip to Paris one weekend in late September, as it was the last weekend of my parents’ apartment lease. I had some boxes to relocate and to make sure we didn’t leave anything before moving out. The night before, Graciela had texted me “what if I came with you…” and the trip became not so solo, which was perfect.

    Friday, Sept. 26th

    Eight hours before leaving for my flight, I decided to take myself out to dinner for a salad and two cocktails. Halfway through dinner I started to not feel so great, which I chose to ignore, as all great doctors advise. By 1 a.m., I was sweating with chills and cramps. When I woke up at 4 a.m. for my flight, I was packing while dizzy and with a swollen face, googling “signs of anaphylaxis,” “signs of food poisoning,” and whether or not it was mandated that Air France carry epi pens on their aircrafts (it’s not). While googling my symptoms convinced me I had about 36 hours left to live – again, all great doctors advise googling your symptoms – I accepted my fate of passing in Paris (poor me) and got on my flight anyway. 

    Saturday, Sept. 27th

    I landed at 9 a.m. and made my way over to the apartment, where I met Graciela. First order of business was a croissant, tea, coffee, and catch up. We talked about New York and Milan fashion weeks, friends we’ve met abroad, and also spent the majority of the time moaning at our croissants and spacing out from sleep deprivation. Afterwards, we took a picture with the wolf mannequin outside of the restaurant and went on a very long walk which consisted of window shopping and discussing the difference between the United Kingdom, Britain, and England – which I must admit, I already forgot. We visited the Jellycat cafe at Printemps, and then decided we needed fuel that was not just a croissant.

    We left Printemps and tried to find a walk-in restaurant. We walked for 45 minutes through the Asian Quarter, Quartier Asiatique, but ultimately found a restaurant with a mixture of Italian, American, and French food. Another meal well spent spacing out from hunger and sleep deprivation. Afterwards, we took our time walking back over to the 1st arrondissement, buying two two Euro bottles of wine – which the storeclerk almost threw them at us for – and sat on the Seine drinking them. We watched ducks fight over nothing, waved at passing boats, and sang along to the violinist on the bridge above us. We then walked back to the apartment, where Graciela took a nap and I watched a Shane Gillis Netflix special, before getting ready for dinner.

    We were having dinner with one of my good friends from high school, Maggie, who is studying abroad in Paris, at a restaurant across the street which has great cocktails and salads. A photoshoot took place in our apartment afterwards, followed by a night out.

    Our first victim was La Fête, which had (at least) a 200 person line down the block. As frequenters at clubs with no lines, just clumps, we decided not to wait in line and just watch behind the clump of people at the barricade. We had no expectations of getting in, but wanted to see those who were while we waited for the rest of our group to meet us. The door man was a very fabulously dressed man in a cropped jacket, tight black jeans, heeled boots, and very neon make up. He was picking people out of the crowd and letting in those with tables – there wasn’t much of a “vibe consistency” that I could notice from who was getting in. I was still focused on the 200 person line, confused as to why it existed considering it was not moving while the barricade cluster was. At some point, the rest of our group came and we started the 15 minute walk over to Carmen.

    To get into Carmen, we decided to come in two groups: one of four, one of five. The first group of five got denied due to there being a “private event,” but then our group of four got in; later, some girls from the original group of five came in. The bouncer was a very tall man in all black: sweater, pants, and trench coat. The inside of Carmen is absolutely gorgeous – it is a classic, old French interior. There are reliefs of little angels on the walls, ionic-esque columns, classically painted ceilings, and gilded mirrors, also with reliefs. There are oil paintings everywhere, a few chairs inside a birdcage for visitors to sit in, and a smoke box that could fit around 15 people looking for their nicotine fix. There is red lighting, a disco ball, and blue LED dots, along with a large bar and dance floor. My one quarrel with this night was that no one was dancing to the techno music, it was a sea of people standing – either on their phones or just trying to talk over the music. The only bodily movements came from being pushed by someone trying to get through. However, it was a great people-watching opportunity.

    The notable crowd members were a group of English-speaking men (Australian? British? Surprisingly not American), one sporting a cowboy hat and the other sporting a lack of spatial awareness, as the joke of our night became how far away he could push you with his bum while dancing. Another man approached us and asked how long we were in Paris for, to which we responded 36 hours, and then he said we weren’t at the right place to see Paris nightlife. He never followed up with where we should’ve been, and we will never know because after staring at us for ten seconds he decided to trot away. Our last interaction was with a man who pointed at Maggie’s outfit, and when she said “oui?” he also trotted away. Overall, we didn’t interact too much with the crowd, but definitely remembered the times we did. 

    Sunday, Sept. 28th

    We had a laborious task ahead of us: moving my family’s things to a storage unit. After getting to the apartment on Saturday and seeing our boxes, I realized I would have to call for some back up power. But before Maggie’s friends came to help us, I went and got scrambled eggs, a pot of tea, and an entire baguette which I devoured within 20 minutes. Once the friends arrived, they helped us move the boxes outside the apartment and we waited for the Uber(s), which both canceled after seeing the boxes. 

    Through divine intervention a moving truck had pulled up across the street, and after noticing every car that approached us ended up leaving, asked if they could help. We waited for an hour for them to finish their actual job before helping us on this side quest. Once we loaded up the truck, we realized there was only one available seat in the car, but we needed all four of us at the storage unit… After some French negotiations, the man opened the back of the truck to show us a little bench by our boxes. Three of us sat on this bench, holding on to our boxes. The trunk was lit up only by the sun through the plastic roof, really allowing us to embody the feeling of being a piece of moving furniture. It was quite a role, dare I say our best. For being in the back of a moving truck, it was quite a smooth ride. Once we arrived we paid our saviours, moved our boxes, and said our goodbyes to the kind friends who assisted us in moving. 

    Graciela and I wandered over to Pierre Hermé for a macaron treat. I had my first ever macaron, and was very jealous I did not get a box of six like Graciela, who is a macaron connoisseur. We made our way back to the apartment, did a last round of cleanups, and discovered a bottle of champagne which became a gift to Graciela, as I was heading out for the airport. 

    She made her way over to the Eiffel Tower, watched the sunset and drank some champagne. It was a good conclusion to our weekend, and a good start to Paris Fashion Week, to which we told everyone we arrived in the back of a moving truck.

  • No Embarrassment for New York Women

    When I was younger, I was quite the theater kid. I remember my third grade auditions for “Charlie Brown the Musical,” where I was Snoopy. The script was a prized possession of mine, I remember what most people had been cast as, and I even remember what color shirt I wore and with what hair style. 

    I have a distinct memory of going to the fifth grade play afterparty (no need to DM for a list), and thinking that it was the peak of coolness. Nothing after this backyard function would ever top it. We had lemonade, cookies, brownies, a backyard zipline and a dream. The older theater kid that I had a crush on was there — I was brave enough to say hello — and after that, I truly thought I ruled the world. That same year I auditioned to sing a solo for the 5th grade graduation: we sang “Some Nights” by fun. and “Try Everything” from Zootopia. 

    My dreams of theater kid fame came crashing down in sixth grade, which was the last time I ever (willingly) did theater. At the closing night of “Suessical,” my friends foolishly invited the guy I liked — AND his entire friend group — to the production. They sat in the front row and laughed – in true middle school boy fashion – every time I came on stage. I will never forget looking at them through the borderline-blinding stage light. It felt like the most embarrassing thing that could ever happen, and I never wanted to feel that way again. Just like every middle schooler, I was easily embarrassed. Everything I, my parents, teachers, or friends did was “cringey;” every little action meant the death of my social life. My performance as the chief jester to my sixth grade crush’s friend group was enough. 

    I continued voice lessons and performed in one more theater production for the New Orleans Russian Community Center when I was 14, but I didn’t invite anyone other than my family, and I had a strict no filming policy. 

    There were plenty of things I was passionate about but quit in middle school. I found them too embarrassing, usually because someone would make fun of me for it: gymnastics, video games, my hip hop and ballet classes. Middle school was spent observing what others were doing, and mimicking it in a way that seemed natural. If my friends liked a guy from Jesuit, I liked a guy from Jesuit. If everyone shopped at C-Collection, I shopped at C-Collection. Even though neither one of those was my style, what mattered to me was that it was the norm. 

    By my junior year of high school I was out of this follower phase. I much preferred doing things I liked alone instead of following along with the rest of the herd. I realized I wanted to come to New York, and embarrassment didn’t seem to exist there. Luckily for me, this idea ultimately seemed to hold true. 

    Funny enough, the thing that cured years of fearing embarrassment was nightlife in New York. At first, I never talked to anyone new, I never talked to the staff at venues, and my worry of embarrassing myself in front of new friends persisted. I buried that embarrassment in October. Now, the highlight of my night is meeting new people and finding out about what crosses our paths. 

    My best friend from New Orleans came to visit me two weekends before Halloween, and of course I had to take her to our favorite spot. We patiently waited by the door, got let in after thirty minutes, and stood inside waiting for drinks, people watching. We bounced around the club, but towards the end of the night we stood talking by the bar, which was less packed than the dance floor. One of my favorite songs came on, and I yelled out lyrics along with an impromptu dance which mainly consisted of twirling and pointing at my friends and some bartenders. At my core, I am a theater kid. When I go out now, I need to be with people who can sing and dance for hours – I can’t stand in a corner and just observe anymore. High off the endorphins from my performance, I tell the bartenders that I plan to begin frequenting the place. “It’s a great spot to dance!” I yelled over a deafening speaker. They give me a “sure” chuckle, make a quick introduction, and we part. I talk to the tough doorman for a few minutes about race cars, he gives me his business card, and we go get a pizza. 

    Even though I danced and sang under the anonymity of a dark room with lowlights, the next day I was beyond embarrassed. I’m human — innately egocentric — so I assumed that everyone cared and noticed that I danced and sang at the top of my lungs as if I was on stage for Chicago’s “Cell Block Tango.” Hoping no one remembers my inconsequential little karaoke number, we come back a few days later. We get all the way in the back of the line and talk about how it has about 70 people in it, and start thinking of where else to go. The doorman pointed to us and motioned for us to come in. I pointed back at us and gave him a questioning look – I was shocked and wanted to make sure he didn’t mean someone else – and he impatiently nodded while holding the rope up. We came in, the bartenders remembered us and gave us a glass of champagne. Since then, we often don’t wait in line and are kindly greeted at the bar there.

    Maybe doing something out of the norm and channeling a side of me I thought I buried eight years ago was actually admired by some. After that weekend, all of my potential embarrassments are defeated by the motto “embarrassment is a mindset.” It seems like the things I used to find humiliating are the things people enjoy about me. I pivoted from dwelling on every moment of my behavior to telling others that “no one cares — it’s a mindset.” Not only did one night out cure my fear of embarrassment, but it also rekindled my inner theater kid along with curing chronic self-scrutiny, because – truly – no one cares.