It is 9:02 a.m. on Tuesday, March 10th and I have been up for exactly three hours and twelve minutes. Keeping my eyes open isn’t difficult so much as it is frustrating, which is a wonder given the breakfast room in which I currently sit. There are five packed tables to both my left and right full of men and women dressed entirely in Chanel, presumably to wear their team colors to the imminent show, which is set to begin at 10:30 a.m.
Last night, I had smoked salmon rolled into bilinis which is essentially a fancy way to say pancakes for dinner, followed by a full bread basket at Hôtel Costes for dessert. My partner-in-procreation left at 2 p.m. which was upsetting given how enlightening his perspective on fashion week has been (for example: “Leandra, I stood outside the Dior show after I dropped you off yesterday — are all the shows like that? There were hundreds of photographers taking pictures of all these people and I saw Chiara Ferragamo! She really works it!”) but it is hard to contest the spectacular weather we’ve seen in this damn city all week, so I’m feeling great about still being here.
The Saint Laurent show was last night in Le Marais. There was a stage that elevated itself and put seated show attendants at head-level with the runway. That was cool. Before that, I hung out with Rosie who is holding appointments at a hotel not far from mine, and I bought a navy blue patent leather A-line mini skirt from Courrèges which is really, really due for a comeback. The morning included Stella McCartney, who always shows at the Opera house and for the occasion, displayed knit turtleneck one piece scarf things. (I don’t know why that would be “for the occasion” but the sentence works.) I sat behind Paul McCartney, who was next to Kanye West, who was next to Cara Delevingne, and wondered what that meant for the YouTube of the future.
The clothes were good, too. Sacai showed some pretty bomb-ass jackets that almost make the notion that another winter will occur in like, six months, palatable. I guess that’s what was missing in New York, right? Excitement for coats. Or maybe not. Anyway, I also stopped by Alessandra Rich’s showroom, who will blow the fuck out of your mind for Fall, which I will tell you all about in an upcoming review that will sandwich Rich between disgustingly cool designers like Natasha Zinko and Vika Gazinskaya. I don’t know if you’re wondering about what’s happening internally, but I haven’t gone to the bathroom since I left New York, which you can do with what you want.
Kenzo showed moving pillars on Sunday and Céline was like, “I am going to kill white sneakers by keeping them very much alive on this runway.” It was so subversive. Oh! And on this note, apparently the French as a collective are really gung ho on the “white sneaker trend” dying. One of the buyers at L’Eclaireur confirmed that with an eye-roll when I suggested a pair of pants in the store would look great with some.
I met and saw a new designer called Vyshyvanka by Vita Kin, who makes these incredible, traditional Ukrainian dresses which I plan to never not wear again. Paris is providing all that exciting butterflies in stomach flutter shit about fashion that the other cities haven’t been able to.
After a Moroccan lunch at a market in Le Marais, which sells the best Medjool dates north of Galilee, I hightailed it to Chloé at the Grand Palais but not before first getting myself embroiled in the weirdest traffic jam. This big @$$ truck tried to hook a U-y on a one-way street that looked just about wide enough to support a single bike and then sandwiched itself between two large buildings. There was no way this truck was getting out of there without like, a crane or something, but the most unusual part of the whole fiasco is that no one honked or cursed or attempted to assault the driver who got himself caught in a concrete pickle. I got out of the cab and onto the subway just in time to be wooed by a light blue corduroy suit.
Then, I came back to my hotel, mandated a shower, did not take one, instead sprayed perfume and dry shampoo, then changed into a denim mini dress and went to see the Yazbukey presentation, which was basically a cabaret performance in Saint-Germain-des-Pres. That was followed by dinner #1 at a nearby restaurant called Boissonnerie which everyone reading this is obliged to try the next time they are here, and then dinner #2 at La Belle Epoque, which on Sunday was the unofficial post-show hangout of Fashion Week.
Abie and I went back to the hotel immediately afterward and said, “Okay! Tonight is the night! We are going places! But first, let me change into something that covers my legs!” Because his legs were already covered, that last note was for me only so he stayed downstairs and ordered a hot (lukewarm, actually) water with lemon in the lobby while I went upstairs and slipped into jeans and a white shirt. By the time I came down, ready to party (or possibly eat more salmon) he was asleep at his table. It was the shortest-lived outfit change I had ever endured. We went upstairs, I brushed my teeth (maybe) and got into bed with my computer.
By 8 a.m. the following morning, I was right back here at this exact table, eating slices of grapefruit and oranges and drinking a cappuccino, which I am only calling a cappucimonkey henceforth. Team colors weren’t out yet but you could tell they were coming. Currently, we’re at seven full breakfast tables of head-to-toe Chanel. Let’s see what happens.
Update: a cafe, the best cafe, is what happened.