Saturday, April 24, 2010

À quelle heure part le prochain vol pour Paris?

Hello, is anyone here listening to me? I keep telling everyone that I'm bored but no one seems to listen around here. All I do is stand and wait, and wait and wait. I don't understand this American designer and her thought process. In fact, what thought process? She is such a slow thinker. She keeps telling me that she's researching things. Like what? Can't she just take a risk and put something together and get this job done? I need to get a real runway job. There is little excitement in fit modeling.

I know that I'm impatient. I'm working with an aging American designer. She forgets what is like to be young. I think the term they use in this country is "old fart". I don't understand this but whatever. Anyway, I have things to do and places to be. I need to get back to Paris and be me again. I'm missing springtime in Paris. I want to walk arm in arm with my friend Gaston and stroll through the Tuileries Gardens. Then after a couple of hours at our favorite cafe, I want to go to the top of the Arc de Triomphe when it's dark and watch the City of Light come alive .

Now do you understand why I want to get this gig over and done with? I did find a place in this small town that the local kids flock to. The American term for is "mall". Hah! I scoff at this. I went to the mall once. I thought I would be able to see the spring lines for Chanel and Dior. All I saw were pants made out of denim. The American women flock to these little counters that sell Coach purses. I hate to be snobby (well, ok, I am French) but it's not a Vuitton. I need my Christian Lacroix's. I don't want to wear these little rubber things on my feet. Those are shower shoes, not shoes for a girl that likes to dance into the night. Galeries Lafayette, now that is a store.

Men's fashion here is a story in itself. I can't tell you how thrilled I was to learn I would be coming to the states. I kept saying "George Clooney,here I come". He is such a sophisticated dresser and oh so dreamy. But what do I see, gasp, men wearing gastly shades of orange. All. The. Time. The American men also like to wear clothes that mimic tree branches. It is not unusual to see women also wear these "things". I can't even call them clothes.

I can't sit around here much longer or I'll get fat. Say a prayer for me that soon, very soon, I'll be strolling down the Champs-Elysees.

À bientôt


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