The French dress code
All you need to know: never wear shorts. Or so I told one American tourist who asked my opinion about what to wear in France and then was heartily offended by my answer.
A few years ago, a woman I met at the University of Florida asked me for some advice.
Having been told by a mutual friend that I lived in France, she had two questions for me concerning her upcoming trip to Germany and Paris.
First, she wanted to know what an appropriate gift for her German hosts would be; and second, how to dress appropriately for a few days of sightseeing in Paris.
As it turned out, neither of my off-the-cuff suggestions sat too well with her: A nice bottle of California wine? Out of the question, as she would never consider giving alcohol to someone as a gift!
Never mind that her plan -- a goody box filled with chewing gum and Hershey bars (I'm not kidding about this) -- might be seen as slightly odd by her adult hosts, as she herself was in her early 30s… leaving me wondering what type of 'advice' she was indeed after; that Twix might be a better choice, perhaps?
But it was my comment on 'appropriate' dress that really had her up in arms. Never having been much of a fashionista (the sad result of wearing the same uniform every day for four years in high school), I have nevertheless made certain observations during my years spent as a Parisienne.
For the purposes of this particular conversation with this particular woman, however, I skimped on the details and got down to the nitty-gritty which, in my humble opinion, was this: no shorts!
Now, this may seem like common sense to my European readers, but in America – especially in the heat of the summer months and especially in Florida – the women actually leave the house wearing shorts sometimes. Really.
For Floridians (or Louisianans, or anyone from the southeastern United States, for that matter), our version of common sense entails not choking to death from the heat if at all possible; and our refusal to wear ankle-length pants in August prevents a certain number of deaths from heat stroke each year, I am quite sure of it.
In fact, both the advice-seeker and I were wearing shorts as I uttered that very phrase. No shorts!
Apparently thinking my commentary a jab at her own sense of style, she became a bit defensive in the 'shorts' arena, defiantly stating that she intended to wear them anyway. What did she care what the Parisians thought of her? And who was I to tell her what to wear on her trip? (Well, um, you did ask, remember?)
Needless to say, it took some doing on my part to convince her that, no, her American-ness (and comfort) shouldn't necessarily be left at CDG customs upon entering France, but rather that dressing like an obvious tourist might leave her vulnerable to certain illicit activities on the Métro and thereabouts.
Pickpockets, for example, are everywhere in Paris – they are good, they are fast, they are decidedly not whom you would expect, and they will get you if you give them half a reason to try -- trust me on this.
Still, her questions brought back memories of my own growing pains upon relocating to the City of Light. Like many expatriates I've known, I did my best those first few months to 'blend in', to look 'French', and…I'm almost ashamed to say…to avoid other expatriates (and expatriate organisations!) like the plague.
In the fashion department, this meant that I went against my ordinary grain and began buying black. Lots and lots of black. Black pants, black sweaters, black coat, black boots, the works. Morticia Adams had nothing on me.
More than a simple statement of la mode, I can now understand why people in large cities tend to stay away from outrageous bursts of colour in their everyday dress. For one thing, try packing hundreds of random separates into an apartment where not only do you not have a closet, but the apartment itself is the size of a closet.
Add this to the fact that many such apartments come equipped with no way whatsoever to hook up laundry facilities - necessitating that load after load be hauled to the local laundromat for washing – and you'll begin to get the picture. How much easier (and cheaper) it all is when there's no need to separate those loads by color, n'est-ce pas?
So, keeping all this in mind (along with a certain dose of insecurity on my part, and the secret desire to dress like my French M-I-L, the very essence of chic), everything I purchased from my arrival point onwards could have easily taken me from work to funeral to evening-out, without skipping a beat.
Into the donation pile went anything with a hint of colour, and the money I saved by buying fewer items went towards the art of 'accessorizing' - although, in all honesty, I can say I have yet to learn to tie my scarves just so – and all of my efforts went towards achieving that 'European Look' that I now grudgingly accept as an impossibility. Now or ever.
Eventually, of course, reality set in: I am not a 'black' person. I don't wear it well and…this hurts…I guess I never did.
Diagnosed as an 'Autumn' way back when (ladies, you all know what I mean), I should have known better. So, this year, it's back to the drawing board – and to the browns and eggplants that I so dearly love – and to my innate American sense of style (so very J. Jill, c'est moi).
These days, although I still wouldn't be caught dead at the bakery in sweats (or anything else suitable only for cleaning house in), I do tend to hang with expatriates just as often as with the French and I can honestly say that I no longer feel the need to 'compete' with French women. Instead, I am much more comfortable simply being me.
And that, readers, is such a relief.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a new pair of socks to show off; if I could just find those Birkenstocks…
Française de Coeur / Expatica
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