Back in 2013 when Joan and I stayed in Paris for 3 months, I bought the most fabulous pair of boots in the world. I’ve worn them for more than 1,000 miles and they are starting to show their age. Like me. Like us. Like that octogenarian who couldn’t get the 4 foot door of the public toilet on a street corner to close so she just dropped trou’ like they were the walls of Jericho. I would say she had balls to do that but that has been fact checked.
As I am now back in Paris, I decided to try to replace said boots. I tried on no less than 20 pair. Included in my now-fluent “boot French” dialogue was: 1) I need a shorter heel, 2) what’s with the buckle?, 3) absolutely not, 4) too expensive, 5) I will think about it, 6) Is this Brazilian hide? 7) Oh, la la la la la, 8) Meh. I did not buy boots.
After boot shopping, I confess, I went to the flea market. As long as I’m confessing, I went to the flea market yesterday, too. It is otherworldly and indescribable. Maybe the pictures can be my words.
So much for wondering what I would do in Paris without The Husband. The only money I spent was for lunch at a fascinating little Guinguette.
Things I observed today:
1. 100% of the people wearing berets in Paris are not Parisian.
2. People can be creative with police tape. (A very large police presence was on my street this morning).
Tomorrow I attend fashion shows all day. I even have press credentials. I mail ordered them. Yep.