Let’s talk about Paris fashion and shopping. You all know that France–specifically Paris–is one of the fashion capitals of the world. (The cast of America’s Top Model went there for Cycle 1, remember?). I had no delusions that I would walk into a couture shop and purchase $1,000 jeans. I WANTED to, but the crushing impact of the dwindling dollar and the fact that I was going to France on a wing and a prayer kept me from spending my hard earned cash. Window after window of smartly dressed mannequins shouted out at me in their silky blouses and double lined slacks. High waisted jeans threatened to make a come back in every other store display. Silver and gold sneakers–specifically Converse–beckoned as the metallic craze continued in Europe.

Before I went I told everyone I wanted to buy one really nice piece of Paris fashion, “just something simple that I can take home and wear, something that when people ask I can smugly say, ‘oh this? I bought it in Paris…” I imagined myself in a sexy mohair sweater, something with an over-sized neck, draped in all the right ways, that I could wear in my freezing cold house in the winter while sipping tea. The problem with my fashion fantasy is I’m really bad at Math. 30 Euro seems like a great deal for a sweater, but I didn’t have the capacity to guess-timate how much that would really be in dollars, ($47.77 according to the currency calculater on 4/17/08). Because I’ve my Math-phobia I was certain that I would accidentally spend 100 bucks on something thinking it was, oh, 50.

The other challenge was fighting my money management side, the part of myself that switches to survive-on-the-bare-minimum mode. This mode is amazing: I can walk around from shop to shop, try on clothes for HOURS, and not buy a thing. I have this mantra in my head: Do you need it or want it? Would you really wear it? Does it have a hood? No? Well then that flunks the criteria for new coats. Does it have arch support? No? Well, then it flunks the new shoes test. I become SO practical that everything becomes virtually unpurchasable.

I bought two things. We were in Montmartre and had just walked past the cafe where the movie “Amelie” was shot when I saw these little black flats. I liked them, they were ‘only’ 20 euro and I didn’t know when and if we would ever slow down enough for me to do some real shopping. It was halfway through the trip and the entire time had been spent traipsing from one museum to another mixed in with the occasional boat tour. I felt like if I didn’t jump on it, I would leave Paris empty-handed and that would be more tragic then the money saved. Now, Montmartre is a little seedy…this is the neighborhood where famous painters went to die and the Moulin Rouge is still up and running. Up until then I had only seen fancy clothing stores with expensive prices neatly recorded on cards and placed at the mannequins’ feet. I was pretty excited when I saw the cost of these shoes and I dragged my parents into the store. The Asian lady running the joint spoke no English, only French, and my Dad helped me negotiate the purchase of these simple shoes. I didn’t like this lady. She was brisk, rude, and impatient. I walked around the store in the flats trying to figure out if I could deal with the fact that they were a little big. “Oui or non?” She shouted. I paused, “Oui.” She told my dad in French that they were really 25, she had marked them wrong because they were new. My dad laughed politely. None of us said anything. The lady gave up and sold me the damn shoes for 20 euro.

Later that day we were returning to the metro and my Dad almost threw me into a store that was having a sale. What I mean is that during all the craziness, all the chaos of navigating Paris rush hour, and the full day of walking my Dad still had his sale radar turned on. He graciously stopped and said, “it looks like this might be your sort of place,” or something like that and I ran with my arms outstretched into Etam. Paris doesn’t seem big on sales, which is why this was extra special. For a moment I wasn’t some English speaking tourist in Paris, I was one of the girls, one of the dozens of young shoppers eager to get my hands on this sale. Together we attacked a pile of Madrid-made sweaters on a table, frantically searched the racks for our sizes and stuffed ourselves into little dressing rooms to try on our wares. I was consumed with joy, pawing through pants, checking labels-wary of anything made in China. The styles were edgy enough to look Parisian, not like something I could find at the mall, and yet I was fighting with myself. Why should I buy a sweater? I could buy a sweater exactly like this in Seattle and pay less for it. Sure it’s made in Europe…but it’s a boring old sweater. Fine, I’m going to look at this gorgeous red jacket…oh no it’s in that horrible bulbous style that’s ‘in’ right now where the waist of the jacket is under your armpits and the sleeves are too short. Then I found it: a tiny little top made out of t-shirt material with a mock turtleneck and a long piece of fabric, like a scarf attached to the neck. The fabric was made up of geometric purple, white, and black circles…really unusual. I snatched it up, and I knew it was right when I thought: “I don’t care how much this is or if it’s on sale: I’m buying it anyway.” The top was a total of 12 euro, which translated to about 20 dollars. I was thrilled. The sales girl chattered at me in French and I smiled at her, beaming, as I plopped down my visa (3% charge impending).

Stay tuned…I’m not nearly done writing about French fashion.