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Tag Archives: Paris
Everyone has been asking me about my trip to Paris. Depending on who they are, I’ll either say, “Yeah, well, I did get roofied my first night there.” Or I’ll say, “The food was amazing!” Both are true.
It helps when you have a foodie as your guide. And I’m not talking about a casual I-heard-that-restaurant-was-good foodie. I’m talking about a girl who puts all of her extra cash toward food. (Shopping is just not her thing.) A girl who spent her last month in NYC hitting up all the top five restaurants like she was about to leave this earth. Forget sky diving–her bucket list would be comprised solely of a meal at every three-star Michelin restaurant on earth. She once tried to convince to me to take a day trip all the way down to central Virginia just to go to The Inn at Little Washington. Girl is obsessed.
And that is the kind of girl you want with you in Paris.
As soon as I arrived, she was on her laptop, scoping out our options the neatest food blog ever: Paris by Mouth. It compiles reviews by all the biggest food critics for each restaurant, plus tells you good options by neighborhood or by what you’re looking for. Pastries? Chocolate? All there. (Hey guys, can we get one of these in NYC?)
She planned our meals with precision, with a special eye toward organic and local restaurants for me. We did five meals in all in the six days I was there, and that’s with her working three of those days. I took pictures of most of the restaurants. Food porn ahead, y’all.
Note: I will be deferring to D. the foodie’s description of the food here, which I have only lightly edited, and to which I have added my own descriptions of the restaurant and scene.
Frenchie Bar a Vin
If you like Terroir in the East Village, you’ll like this Parisian version. This tiny tapas bar is an offshoot of the more exclusive and expensive Frenchie across the street, and is served by the same kitchen. We arrived at 7:05, and five minutes later it was standing room only. And this is in Paris, where nothing starts until 10 pm!
The food itself was delicious with a creative and tidy presentation. We split the smoked mackerel with cauliflower, which was fresh and delicate and not too salty. The burrata—an Italian mozzarella and cream dish—with pea pesto melted in our mouths. (Apparently it’s a favorite of Paris—we would see this dish everywhere for the rest of the week.) The sliced meat dishwith truffles was boring and lacked flavor (white girl problems!). Tete de couchon (head of pig, a.k.a. sweat meats a.k.a. brain) was a creamy and delicious. We finished off with a rhubarb and strawberry dessert with yogurt/crème. It was light and not too sweet. And rhubarb is always a sign the restaurant sources from seasonal and local sources! Finally, the pot au chocolat with caramel and passion fruit had some inventive and tasty flavors, but could have used half as much sugar and was entirely too liquid. D. was afraid it would spill off her spoon.
Ironically, we were disappointed in the wine at this wine bar. D. asked in French for something dry and not too sweet, and was presented with a prosecco to taste. She said light and crisp and he gave her something that tasted like a chardonnay. After trying yet another wine, she finally gave in and kept the final option. When we asked for a refill, they were out. And later on the two Danes we had met had a bottle that was delicious, but they had picked it out themselves, with no help from the bartender.
Meanwhile the service in general was almost comically bad. My water glass was so dirty it had giant specks floating in it. When I pointed this out to the bartender, he didn’t even look at it before dumping it. Acknowledge the dirtiness! I’m not crazy! We asked for extra plates since we were sharing and they said no. They also only gave us one napkin. Not each, but between the two of us. So D. would reach over to wipe her hands on mine. Because we’re besties.
Conclusion: Delicious if stereotypically rude. Show up early, speak French and be open-minded about the wines.
Like Frenchie, this restaurant is tucked inside a sketchy and unassuming alleyway and also serves tapas style. And honestly? Everything should be tapas style. Because I want to sample as much as possible.
At our 8 pm rez, the restaurant was almost empty, but was packed by the time we left at 10:30. We were seating on the canapé (couch), which was quite romantic and made us feel like rulers surveying our court … atop rock hard springs that made our asses hurt when we tried to flop down on the cushions. Bring friends and sit at a table if you come here, the mood was casual and fun.
The wines served are natural and organic, which of course is a bonus. The waiter spoke such excellent English that we asked him where he was from, to which he answered, “Paris.” Of course, he just had a perfect accent. Making Americans look unrefined is what Parisians do best. That and food.
Our waiter advised us to proceed slowly, ordering as we went and getting more if we wanted. We sampled the ceviché de lieu jaune, which is what you would expect from good ceviche: fresh, with large, scallop-sized chunks. Meanwhile we watched a plate of sea urchins arrive at a neighboring table. They were palm-sized, inky black with tiny spikes covering their surface. We wanted them. Bien sur, when we ordered them, they were out. How could that be? The lesson: if you want something, order it right away.
We ordered burrata for the second night in a row. This one was as expected, creamy, decadent, delicious, and was topped with bottarga roe/caviar (pourtargue in French). The bottarga was a nice addition–burrata always needs plenty of salt, and the bottarga added that along with a tempting pop of orange.
Next came duck with toasted almonds. It was perfectly cooked and delicious. Then raw asparagus with bulot (sea snails). We didn’t know sea snails were a thing, and now we know we don’t need to try it again. It was bland, flavorless and disappointing.
We finished off with a cheese plate. It had three choices, and two of them were blue. That was a disappointment, as D. doesn’t like blue cheeses, and isn’t two blue cheeses too much anyway? What about something runny, or hard, or goat’s milk?
Conclusion: Solid food, good for a group outing and organic wines.
Bistrot Paul Bert
This bistrot was just so French. The tables of vielles dames and the utter absence of any Americans were two excellent signs.
After a little snafu over our reservation—we made one for 1:30 pm with no problem, but when we showed up they said the kitchen was about to close and maybe if someone left their table we could perhaps have lunch—we were finally led to a table. It’s infuriating how even when you want to give French people money, they run you through some tests to see if you are worthy to be their clientele.
The food was traditional French, Julia Childs-style: all cream, butter, meat and rich flavors. We had cream of mushroom soup that seemed more like mousse than something you sip. Like mushroom ice cream, in a good way.
Next came the lamb with celery puree, which fell off the bone. And finally the cheese plate: an assortment of six or seven cheeses that could have been a meal in itself. Somehow we made room for warm apple slices arranged in a circle around salted caramel ice cream. Oh God, yes.
Conclusion: Great food, a typical French bistrot and good for people-watching. Get there early and stay all day (you’ll need to have room for all three courses!).
Les Fines Gueules
If you are a foodie in search of organic and local fair, put this at the top of your list. From the menu that changes daily, to the extensive organic wine list to the local ingredients, it gave me the feeling that great care and thought had been put into the ingredients. The atmosphere is classy, and you might find comfort in the din of English, Spanish and other international conversations around you.
We started with the carpaccio of veal raised by its mother for 36 months, arranged delicately across a plate with Parmesan. More raw meat came afterward, with hand-cut tartar expertly flavored with a medley of spices. We ordered the gourmet coffee plate, an espresso with little dessert morsel, for a minimal and tasteful sweet end to our meal.
Conclusion: Great choice for a nice dinner with your parents. Set aside your meat guilt as it is all consciously sourced here.
We nervously entered this restaurant for lunch exactly two minutes after 12pm. Would they be rude or dismissive like the other restaurants?
Absolutely not. The service was preternaturally friendly for Paris. We were the only ones there when we arrived, and they quickly showed us to a table against a wall filled with wines for sale, floor to ceiling. While we ate, an old man hobbled in, selecting a wine, and chatting with the chef until his cranky wife came to fetch him, squabbling with him in that lovely way old, French, married couples do.
Each day there is a new short little menu. Of course, you could order à la carte, but really, just go with what the chef suggests. You won’t be sorry. I, for one, don’t like zucchini. But when the two shallow bowls arrived, with their piles of morsels like fried parsley, bacon bits, crispy garlic croutons and cold zucchini, how could I turn it down? A soup tureen of hot zucchini soup was set to the side, and we ladled it around the sumptuous mountain in the middle like a creamy moat around a castle. As we began to eat, we couldn’t help ourselves from emitting what probably sounded like sex noises. It was that good.
The next course was slow-cooked lamb with parmesan polenta. The lamb, it was just … so big. How could two little girls like us eat all of it? Imagine something the size of a chihuahua’s head, one for each of us. We were so full, and yet we tried to make a dent in the dish, conscious of the French (stupid) prohibition against doggy bags. We were eating like bears trying to build up fat reserves for the winter, or like a dog that’s gotten into the pantry. And really, it wasn’t a trial. The lamb fell away from the giant bone with one prod of the fork, and melted in our mouths. Chewing was hardly necessary. The polenta almost killed D. in its deliciousness.
Imagine our delight when the server came to clear away the food, and we murmured our apologies and exclaimed how sad we were not to finish it. “Would you like it wrapped up?” he asked. “MAIS OUI!” Wrap that shit up and put it in some Tupperware, Monsieur! We’ll take one of your logo-ed bags too, thanks.
Finally came my little dessert of layered panna cotta, which I scarfed down with minimal delicacy.
Conclusion: You must go here. Period. The end.
Le Comptoir du Relais
After an afternoon of wandering around Boulevard St. Germain and taking pictures of random French scenes, the rain started up again again. D. led me to a café, where we took two seats outside on the heated, street-level terrace, tucking the monogrammed fleece blankets over our laps.
This restaurant is normally packed and requires reservations weeks in advance, but we stopped in at an odd time of the afternoon between meals for a little snack of escargot and cheese. The escargot was classic, their little shells hiding buttery, garlicky morsels inside. There was enough of this oil left over to sop up with our bread. We finished the first basket and requested another for the cheese plate, which was classic and delicious all around. As we ate we people watched: les Francais scurrying by in the downpour, a trio of gorgeous young women, dressed to the nines and chatting with self-satisfied looks as they slowly emerged from a Range Rover to head inside a café, and a single, beautiful woman who sipped her wine and stared out at the street.
Conclusion: Deliciously classic French. A perfect choice for savoring an afternoon of people watching and good food.
A la Biche au Bois
When we got off the train and walked, something felt familiar. And then it struck me—we were in the 12th arrondissement where I lived for a summer during school. There was the street I had gone jogging down on weekends toward the park!
But now it was just for a visit to a French restaurant that looks as though it hasn’t changed since 1972. And I mean that as a compliment. It was a dressy place, full of what looked like business people and dates seated at dark wood booths and tables in the low light, enjoying a classic meal.
The food looked heavy, so we split an entree, main course, and dessert and still had to roll ourselves home. This is a very game-y restaurant (Biche au Bois means Doe of the Woods), with duck, venison, boar, and many different iterations of steak. We had a rabbit terrine and the duck. If only we had been hungry enough to enjoy more!
For dessert I ordered an isle flottant or a floating island. Imagine a cube of meringue floating atop a liquid custard. Delicieux.
We were at our table for probably two and a half hours, and didn’t see a table turn over the whole time. This is a French thing. Since the waitstaff doesn’t make tips, it’s in their interest to keep you at a table as long as possible. That means less work for them. It’s great if you’re the one seated, languorously enjoying your meal and wine. It sucks if you’re the one trying to get a table, shivering in the cold outside!
Conclusion: Come hungry for meat.
About a year ago, the last of my friends without a smart phone finally gave in. He had been so proud (or obstinate, rather) about his flip phone. When we met up for a catch up drink, I didn’t even notice him pull out his iPhone until he asked, “Notice anything?” while waving it in front of my face.
Of course, I congratulated him joining the rest of us in 21st century New York.
The truth is, I couldn’t imagine navigating life in NYC without my smart phone. From the time I started searching for apartments, I had a Blackberry to help me travel from one tiny apartment to the next without a map.
Now I use my iPhone all day long: in the morning to meditate, check the weather, and even check my email before I get out of bed. (Yes, I’m a person who does that.) I catch up on the rest of the mail that has come in between 7 and 9am while I wait for my smoothie at Liquiteria. Then I place it by my desk where it will alert me with a lit screen if I have text messages from friends or dates.
But it’s on the weekends that I really need it. What’s the quickest way to get to my friend’s apartment situated in that “up-and-coming” neighborhood in Brooklyn? Is the train actually running? OK, it’s not, which one should I take instead? “Ah I’m running late, srry! 15 mins!” What’s the best route by bike to the South Street Seaport? Where’s a good bar nearby? Where should I stand on the subway platform for quickest exit? Which seafood on this menu is sustainable? I’m standing at the farmers market and need a recipe for squash blossoms, help, Epicurious! Just spent $15 at the farmers market, need to note it down for my budget. Me and J. are together at this amazing brunch spot, here’s a pic of our breakfast cocktails. Jealous much?
Obviously, it’s a useful thing to have. But even when I don’t need it, I’m still pulling it out of my pocket, like a worry stone with an LCD screen. An extra minute without something to pull my attention means it’s time to check my mail and stare jealously at A.’s beautiful Instagram pics.
So imagine my horror when I landed at London Heathrow last Saturday and my iPhone’s top left corner only said “Searching…” No! Please, let it work. I need to Instagram the Eiffel Tower! I want to check in at French restaurants and have a map of the metro at my fingertips! But some quick research on my laptop at Heathrow revealed I was SOL.
I, however, am an optimist who loves to read O Magazine articles on how to connect with one’s inner life. I could do this. I could live for a week in a foreign city–in which I wasn’t totally sure I could still have a conversation or even string together sentences–take the metro, meet up at appointed times and just generally function on a basic level. I just needed a flip phone with basic calling and texting functions, and my brain (I hoped) would handle the rest.
Here’s what I discovered:
I interacted with France. As I stood on the platform Monday morning for my first solo trip, and I had nothing to occupy me. I glanced around, and accidentally caught the eye of a French guy across the platform. He smiled at me, and I looked shyly away. When I boarded the train, I looked out the window for lack of anything else to do, and I saw him again. He waved goodbye as the train left the station.
“I forgot that French men hit on you all the time,” I told D. when I met up with her for lunch, telling her what happened. “That hasn’t happened to me!” she said. My guess is that her having her nose always in a Kindle or iPhone makes her unapproachable. Perhaps I should do that same in NYC?
I exercised my brain. D. equipped me with Paris Pratique, which lists every rue in Paris in an index, with a corresponding square in a grid on a neighborhood map. Each time I wanted to get somewhere, I would look up the street, turn to the page, search the square for the street, and then find the nearest metro stations in order to plan my route.
Maybe it sounds crazy, but I quickly grew to love this little brain teaser. Sometimes I chose a longer route than I could have. But doing it this way felt so satisfying. Of course, you could brand me as a tourist as soon as I pulled the little book of maps out of my pocket, but c’est la vie.
Don’t ask me why these books are hanging from this tree by Saint Germain. I couldn’t tell you.
I got lost (but that’s OK). This requires a back story: D. and I were at a lovely little wine bar one night when we met a pair of Danish guys. (Not “Denmarkian,” as I accidentally called them. Oof.) They were in the exact same situation as us, with one living and working in Paris, and the other visiting for the week. Adam and Adam were their names. So Adam #1–as I would come to call him—and I made plans to hang out together the next day while both our friends worked.
When we met up the next day, he was all for just wandering around, getting lost. But it was drizzling on and off, and I had my sights set on the Pompidou. Using my little map, I led us confidently toward the famous modern art museum.
“Are you sure this is the right way?” Adam asked once, looking at his phone. I consulted my map. “Yup! We’re headed right down this big street,” I told him. We continued to walk, talking and folding away our umbrellas as the weather cleared. Twenty minutes later, I looked again and realized we had been heading in the exact opposite direction. “Crap!” I cried. “I totally messed up!” Adam smiled an innocent smile. “You knew the whole time, didn’t you,” I said. He just smiled some more. “Jerk!” I smacked him with my Paris Practique, but I was laughing.
We never did make it to the Pompidou, and yet I still really enjoyed our walk. I managed to lead us in the wrong direction a couple more times, but we eventually made it to the Grand Palais for an exhibition. My sense of direction is crap, but there are worse things than getting lost in Paris.
This woman’s expressions is just so French, isn’t it?
I stopped showing off. There were so many times when I had an itch to pull out my iPhone and Instagram some famous monument or Parisian thing and post it to all my social networks. I wanted to check in to every Parisian café and restaurant and museum. “I’M IN PARIS! I wanted to trumpet to every person I know. Eventually I stopped caring and just enjoyed where we were, concentrating on the food and the art and the tulips in the tuilieries.
I rediscovered pens, paper and planning. Before I could go anywhere, I had to write down the name of the street and address, phone numbers, restaurants, directions and everything else I could have looked up on the fly if I had an iPhone. I had slips of paper stuffed into my purse at all times, and what a delicious feeling that was! Making everything digital is so tidy and clean, but a piece of paper covered with evidence of where you went and where you want to go is lovely, tactile and romantic.
Lovely, tactile and romantic … sounds like Paris to me.
I’m back to life with an iPhone now that I’m back in New York, but at least I now know I can survive without it. I just might get a little lost …
Remember how I said, “Paris is always a good idea?” I want to take that back.
That’s because my very first night in Paris, I got roofied. Thanks, Paris. Right back atcha.
Here’s what happened:
My plane touched down at Paris Orly at 2:45, and D. was waiting for me right outside the baggage claim. We did the high-pitched squeal thing and then took a bus into the city to the 17th arondissement (that’s neighborhood for you non-Francophiles) where she lives.
Her adorable little apartment is on an adorable little street that is just so French. I made D. watch the opening sequence of Beauty and the Beast with me, where all the French people are popping out of windows singing “Bonjour!” I wanted to fling open the windows and yell “Bonjour!” to the people walking the cobblestones below me, visiting the boulangerie (bakery), the bucherie (butcher), poissonerie (fishmonger), patisserie (pastry shop), flower stand and all the other little shops lining the street.
I bought a pretty orange purse from a stand. I attempted to negotiate but the guy pretended he didn’t hear me and I chickened out. Then I got apples from the organic store (they call organic “bio” here, FYI) and we popped into the wine store, where a kindly merchant suggested some red wines for us, then wrapped them lovingly in tissue paper, writing the price in their strange French characters–the one looks like a seven–plus directions on how long we should let the wine breathe. Adorable.
We took a delicious four-hour nap before rousing at 10 to prettify ourselves. We ordered the NYC box of sushi from Sushi Shop. Isn’t it awesome looking? Life was good.
And then it all went downhill.
We took the metro to the Champs Elysee, and walked down a little street to a nice bar D. had been to before. I guess the bouncer saw us coming, because he immediately said when we walked up, “Desolée, c’est fermé.” (Sorry, it’s closed.)
“Really?” D. asked in French. He nodded as he held the door open for a pretty girl to go inside. “Come back tomorrow,” he told D.
I gave him a dirty look before we turned to leave. Next we tried the club Matignon, where the bouncer looked us up and down and consulted with a haughty girl with a clipboard. She gave her approval and we were in!
Wow, there were a lot of pretty people in there. And they alllll had bottle service. Except for us. The upside was that we didn’t have to elbow our way to the bar. The downside was that we spent 20 each on a glass of champagne.
The music was awful. The DJ would lay into a really good track with bass, tantalizing us before switching it off in the middle and putting on Killing Me Softly and We Will Rock You. Seriously?? Of course no one was dancing. After finishing our champagne, we were still way too sober to deal with this situation. So we knocked back one shot at the bar, and ordered a couple mixed drinks. I didn’t even finish a quarter of mine, because I soberly spilled it in the bathroom.
So at this point, I had two drinks in my system of the course of an hour. I felt completely sober. D. and I were talking to a couple nice guys when two other guys walked up to us, introduced themselves and then asked us to hang out with them at their table. Yes, please!
Later, we would recognize how weird that was. But at the time we were grateful to finally partake in the bottle service, instead of awkwardly standing around, not dancing.
One guy was Egyptian, as was his female friend at the table. I asked her what she thought about the political situation there, but she shushed me. “I don’t want to talk about that right now. Ask me over brunch.” The other guy was from Miami. The guys poured D. and I a drink from a bottle of Belvedere.
D. took a sip and then leaned in to shout in my ear over the music, “This doesn’t taste like vodka. What if something is in it?”
“Nah, it’s fine,” I told her. “It’s probably just the club jerking us around and watering it down.”
Famous last words. It could have been the vodka, or it could have been the energy drink one of the guys poured in it. But twenty minutes later I found myself barely able to stand. Well, I thought twenty minutes later. I blacked out for a period of probably hour, during which I made out with one of the guys and danced on the bench seat. I don’t remember any of it. Apparently the guys kept trying to get us to go back to their apartment with them, but D. ran interference on that idea. My blackout eased to a brownout when I started walking to the bathroom, and fell sideways into a table. I righted myself with effort, and somehow got myself down to the bathroom and inside, where I vomited. A lot.
When I came out, an employee pointed to the bathroom, which had vomit all over it and said something in French about it. I shook my head. “I didn’t do that,” I told her, and dragged myself upstairs where I sat down and waited for D. to find me. I couldn’t even find the energy to go back to the table. I couldn’t stand up! I don’t know how long I sat there, but I finally realized I would have to find her. I stood up and walked somewhere, I don’t remember where, and found her. Oh my God, I found her.
That’s the last thing I remember. Somehow, we found a cab, and we got back to her place. D. said that we got out of the cab, she went to unlock her door and when she turned around I was standing in the middle of the street, and then just fell sideways. Just bit it.
She also told me that she had to undress me and put me in pajamas. She made rice for me, but I passed out. Fifteen minutes later, the roofies hit her, and she was in the bathroom too, petrified.
She attempted to text her boyfriend, but couldn’t string together letters in the correct sequence, even though she was really trying.
The mariachi band outside her window woke me up this morning. “D.! Why is there a mariachi band outside your window?” I whined. I looked down at D.’s t-shirt and boxers and remembered. I was so embarrassed. How could I get that drunk? I wondered. I haven’t done that since my freshman year of college! What an amateur move. When D. suggested it was roofies, I poo pood the idea. But when we started thinking back over the night, over the three drinks I had and the sudden onset of my inability to stand, we realized what happened.
I managed to navigate the stairs in her apartment to buy a baguette and we devoured it, thanking our lucky stars that the roofies didn’t hit D. until we were back in the apartment. What would have happened? I don’t want to think about it.
We went to lunch with a friend from college today, and ran into a French friend of D.’s. When we told her what happened, she shrugged, ashing her cigarette. “Oh yeah, that’s happened to me too,” she said in French. “It happens all the time.”
I don’t even understand roofies. Why would you want to hang out with a girl who is vomiting everywhere? That’s what roofies do! It’s so cowardly in so many different ways.
I guess I had just gotten too complacent about being safe when I’m out. What was I thinking? I wasn’t. At least we got home safe. But people have been instant messaging me, asking things like “OMG, are you having just the best time?” Actually, no. I’ve been sleeping, rejected at a bar, vomiting and then trying to recover from a massive hangover.
Hopefully that was the low point. Tomorrow I’m going to go to some musées, eat delicious food, and go to good bars where I’m going to keep an eagle eye on my drink.
There are many things I love about France. The fact that I could get a warm baguette this morning from a boulangerie five feet from D.’s door, the long dinners over wine had at a table on the sidewalk, the way the Eiffel Tower twinkles every hour on the hour. But things I don’t like are piling up: the constant smoking, the matter-of-fact racism, and the absence of peanut butter are some of them.
Now I’m adding roofies to the list.
You are about to be jealous in t-minus 3…2…1….
I’m in London!!
Yup! I hopped a flight (carbon offset at a price of $22.66, naturally) to the old continent to visit my dear friend D. in Paris–of the going away party and recycled champagne glasses—and I’m on layover in the land of bad food, class divide, mean tabloids and royalty obsession.
The first thing I saw disembarking my flight? A hunky British dude making direct eye contact. I think I like it here.
D. is living the dream in Paris. On the one hand, I don’t like that my best friend is thousand of miles away. On the other hand, now I have an excuse to go to mother f’n Paris! (She keeps trying to get me to move there, but how could I leave NYC behind?
After we tear it up in the city of lights for a week, we’ll be back in London for a weekend. I’ve spent a whole summer in Paris before, but as the Audrey Hepburn character Sabrina said, “Paris is always a good idea.” But I’ve never been to London. “We must go,” I emailed D. emphatically. “It’s a huge hole in my experience that needs filling.”
So please, if you have recommendations, comment below or tweet them my way! I’ve already gotten a short list of museums, plus un-missable street food and competing recos for the best place to get high tea. (National Gallery, National Portrait Gallery, Tate Modern, Bosphorus Kebabs, The Ritz or Dukes Hotel, respectively).
Also, what does a modern green girl pack for her adventure in world travel? It’s all revealed:
From top left: iPhone charger, compact faux crocodile wallet, John Masters Organics lip balm, Korres non-toxic lipstick in coral, Sigg water bottle (empty for security), apartment keys (stripped of superfluities), laptop charger, Clean Hippie blog business cards and card holder, ChicoBag reusable bag, birth control, handkerchiefs from the Brooklyn Flea (2), pen, sleep mask, iPhone in Anicase endangered species cover, headphones, passport (!), flight reservation, sunglasses gotten for free from advertising partner at work with logo rubbed off with soy nail polish remover (couldn’t find my Kayu sunglasses—darn!). Not pictured: Zebra striped travel pillow made with post-consumer recycled content, laptop, magazines (coming up).
What to Wear for an Overnight Flight
Clearly, the goal is to get as close as to pajamas as possible without looking like a typical American ass. I chose my Degree Six top in soft organic cotton, organic Deborah Lindquist leggings, and a stack of Green Sewn vintage sari bracelets. You can’t see them, but on my feet are fuzzy socks—a Christmas present from my dear sister.
Mags Go Green for Earth Day
I have been busy unsubscribing from catalogues left and right, but I just can’t give up on my print editions of magazines. After all, they don’t put everything on line. And many magazines I get through my work. Piles of magazines have been eating my apartment like kudzu, but flights are a fabulous time to catch up.
Check out this bundle that has probably given me permanent back problems from hauling them to work and then through the subway system to the airport. (No black car for this lady.)
I absolutely loved diving into the April editions, since magazines from inStyle to Self are doing their darndest to pay lip service to Earth day with lots and lots of toxin-free and eco-friendly products—some old friends, some new to me. I also love that InStyle is educating consumers about one of my favorite websites, Skin Deep.
On my to try list: aluminum-free Weleda citrus deodorant, Yes to Tomatoes acne spot stick, USDA-certified organic essential oils by Tsi-La, Mali Organics Koke’e organics sugar body polish, DairyFace Eye Caramba Nourishing Facial Refresher, Butter London non-toxic nail polish, Dairy Kai vegetable base skylight candle, Bracketron’s Mushroom Green Zero wall charger, (all rated high by inStyle) and NY-based Anjolie Ayurveda moisturizers and soaps (thanks Oprah mag!). I even found some goodies in the ads: non-toxic Zoya nail polish and EOS lip balm (the ones you’ve no doubt seen in those little egg-shaped containers).
Of course, when I say “To try,” I do’t mean “Run out and immediately buy everything.” I just mean it’s on my radar if I happen to find myself in need of body polish. Truly being green means being judicious about purchases, yo.
Stay tuned for lots of lovely pictures! I have my big fancy Canon D7, my little canon for nights out and of course Instagram on my iPhone. Meanwhile, enjoy one of my favorite songs about Paris. (Hopefully we will make it to club Showcase! I had to cull my going out options down from three sequined dresses to one.)
Gotta run! My gate just got posted for Pearee.