Paris, My Sweet (12 page)

For months, I had been positively gushing about life in Paris: how charming the square-shaped trees were and how exquisite the gold-tipped ironwork; how graceful the seventeenth-century
hôtel particuliers
and enviable the French women's legs; how sweet the strawberries and how divine the wine. I think you could say I'd been prattling on ad nauseam about how everything in Paris was just…
perfect
.

As if.

After my visit to New York, accompanied as it was with my obnoxious “everything's better in Paris” attitude, karma caught up with me. Sure, my new home was beautiful and romantic and lovely and amazing, with delicious
boulangeries
and pâtisseries filled with delicately dreamy
viennoiserie
and
gâteaux
on each and every corner.

But it was also frustrating as hell.

For my new Parisian life, sadly, wasn't always spent sipping champagne on Ogilvy's rooftop with its prime views of the Eiffel Tower and l'Arc de Triomphe. Nor did every day contain a blessed visit to a sleek new chocolatier where three-tiered fountains spouted molten cocoa for all. In fact, since summer turned to fall, the fantasy faded. Just as I had felt like a foreigner a few weeks ago in New York, being back in Paris made me hyperaware of a giant cultural divide. I was surprised—and,
oui
, a little hurt—to see that my new love did in fact have faults. And I didn't like the taste of things to come.

My return from New York in September coincided with
la
rentrée
—a time of magical new beginnings in Paris that's like “back to school” in the States, only bigger and more profound. Beyond just kids getting new pencil boxes and corduroys after a summer of catching fireflies and building campfires, it's
the
season of renewal. Change is embraced and celebrated by every proud citizen; it's a feted homecoming for the entire city that is returning to work after spending August frolicking
à la plage
—unless, of course, they were like me and the Louis Vuitton team, who toiled not only the entire sacred heat-filled month, but every weekend of it too.

To be fair, disillusionment started creeping in before my New York visit and
la
rentrée
to Paris. Summer had barely kicked off when Vuitton announced they wanted a new website—a major undertaking—and they were also opening the opportunity up to other agencies. We would continue to do their existing digital advertising, but we'd also have to defend the account and prove ourselves worthy of the additional project. In other words, we were in pitch mode.
Au
revoir, summer
.

But we weren't just called upon to defend our work (and honor)—we did it gagged and blindfolded. On our knees, with our hands tied behind our backs. For the very same day I learned about the pitch, Fred, the creative director who recruited me and brought me over to Paris, announced he was packing up his home and family and moving to New York himself. He was out of there. Ogilvy's worldwide creative director subsequently bounced back and forth between New York and Paris all summer to help fill the void, but it was still a devastating loss. Personally, it felt weird that the guy who was, in effect, responsible for my being in Paris was leaving so soon after my arrival. And on the work front, I couldn't help but think the creative director's departure didn't bode well for our chances of winning the Louis Vuitton relaunch.

I think it's fair to say I felt jilted by all this un-Gallic behavior. My visions of canal-side picnics in August were cruelly dashed, to say nothing of the chocolate éclairs heavy with custard, the buttery brioches that begged to be pinched and devoured, and raspberry tarts with their plump berries perfectly fanned out across precious beds of
crème pâtissière
and moist
pâte sablée
crusts that would have to go untasted while I was at the office.

I mean, sure, it was fun and sexy to write about supple leather handbags and glittery cruise collections designed for fabulous jet-setters who needed wardrobes for their two-week romps in St. Bart's and Gstaad. It was exciting to dream up new ways of bringing the luxury brand's rich and impressive 155-year-old history to life in ways never envisioned. It's true—working on an account like Louis Vuitton is the stuff copywriters kill (and, worse, backstab!) for. But even so, I'd opt for the relatively modest pleasure of biting into a piping hot Nutella crepe out on boulevard Saint-Germain over drafting clever headlines any day of the week. Especially a Saturday or Sunday.

Luckily, I had squeezed in some trips back in May and June. In fact, May is riddled with national holidays in France and the way they fell on the calendar that year meant three long weekends in one month. I took full advantage.

My first journey outside the city was when Michael and I road-tripped to the Loire Valley, spending two days touring chateaux and sipping Vouvray, the local sparkling wine. Then I took a solo trip to Biarritz, a kickass beach town near the border of Spain that's known for its big waves and surf tournaments. Though I can barely swim, I love the salty air and laidback vibe of coastal towns and Biarritz proved to be both mellow and sophisticated. On one of the days, I went to the town's incredible
marché
—another French orgy of bread, cheese, pastries, fruit, vegetables, wine, meat, and seafood—and bought a beautiful hunk of
pain
aux
céréales
(fresh, dense multigrain bread),
brebis
(a local sheep's milk cheese), and strawberries (so sweet) so I could picnic on the beach while watching the surfers. The other days were spent sampling regional sweets like the
gâteau Basque
and
pâte d'amandes
. The former was a dry, circular shortbread cake filled with cherry preserves, the latter, basically marzipan. It came in infinite flavors, from raspberry to lemon to pine nut to chocolate, and was sometimes sliced and packaged like chocolate bars, and sometimes cut into bite-sized pieces, rolled in sugar and sold in bags like bonbons. It was delicious both ways.

And in June, Melanie, one of my single girlfriends from New York, met me for a week on the Côte d'Azur. We explored breathtaking mountain villages and seaside trails, walking up hills and down crooked streets. We sauntered along the famous
croisette
, or waterfront boulevard, in Cannes and overindulged in fresh fish and creamy gelato in the old town of Nice. We wore bikinis and sundresses and danced on tables and drank Pastis. By the end of the week, I felt as young and free as a college student again. Every trip I took made me fall more in love with the French countryside, and it seemed just plain cruel that I couldn't spend the entire summer enjoying foreign escapades.

But there were some silver linings to being at the office so much. I was finally bonding with my Louis Vuitton team, and even meeting other people. On one of the brilliant July Saturdays we were stuck at the office, I met Jo, an Australian art director who had been with Ogilvy for a couple years. I had taken a break to go up to the rooftop and cheer on the international Tour de France cyclists making their final laps up and down the Champs-Élysées (another good thing about having to work that day, I guess: having a prime view of this prestigious event). Jo was doing the same, but she was making a day of it, there on Ogilvy's terrace with an expat gang and cache of picnic goodies.

I had been peripherally aware of Jo's cool, street-smart style around the office but had never had the occasion to chat with her. That day, sensing a kindred spirit, she introduced herself and insisted I have a spot of her rosé—a friendly and generous gesture that was not lost on me. Before I retreated inside to work, we agreed to meet for lunch when my schedule settled down. After slaving away all summer, we—Jo and I—did have lunch, and we—Ogilvy—were awarded the site relaunch. Our days of summer drudgery paid off.

Before work got too busy again, I wanted to tap into
la
rentrée's
electric energy and make all kinds of declarations for growth and betterment—the kind of optimistic gestures that Oprah would have inspired back home with her January issue of
O
Magazine
. With revving scooters buzzing in the city again like swarms of angry bees, and chic
mamans
bustling about in their flouncy skirts, escorting their adorable kids who had better wardrobes than me, I was determined. It was time to set some goals. At the top of my list: study more French, take on additional freelance writing assignments, and make new friends.

It was time to see how deeply my roots might grow in my new home.

I fancied myself
une
vraie
Parisienne
, coming back from New York and embracing this social norm. But practically as I was drafting my to-do list, I lost my motivation. Suddenly nothing moved or inspired me. And instead of boning up on possessive pronouns and breaking into all the American publications like I had vowed to do, I found myself avoiding my French workbook like
la
grippe
and procrastinating on the very few writing assignments I did have.

Even my passion for the Vélib's waned. With the whole city's return from the beach, the boulevards were suddenly choked with Peugeots and Renaults and their thick diesel fumes. Besides, the sun was setting earlier and earlier and it was usually dusk now when I left work. The streets felt precarious, and I didn't have the heart or nerves for bicycling. I found myself in a cloud of paralysis and dourness. I felt tired, achy, stressed, and short-tempered—not exactly the magnificent
rentrée
I had envisioned.

One thing that kept me going were my evenings and weekends, when I wandered the city. I grew starry-eyed, ogling the floor-length gowns and impossibly high
talon
s
hauts
through the windows of rue Saint-Honoré's chichi boutiques, and was blissfully happy hand-picking my peaches and leeks from the markets on rues Cler and d'Aligre. It thrilled me to count the different angels, lords, and gargoyles that decorated the apartment façades and the way some people grew veritable jungles on their four-foot-wide balconies. I adored exploring the different neighborhoods, with all the cute little
cul de sacs
and ancient
boulangeries
, and I'd inevitably get lost, which would make the discovery of a random eclectic boutique or lonesome park all the more magical. Being part of Paris's daily beats and rhythms was why I was there.

But actually, as my ever-increasing assignments and deadlines at Ogilvy reminded me, the reason I was in Paris was to…
work
. Even easing back into regular life after cranking on the pitch all summer, I was pulling longer, more intense hours than I had in New York. When I had arrived in the springtime, I was shocked to discover that most people were at the office until well past 7:00 p.m. every night. But now, 8:00 p.m. was becoming my habitual departure time. The thirty-five-hour French workweek I had arrived believing would be mine was nothing but a myth. And to add insult to injury, I knew the days could have been shorter if only we didn't have these absurd meetings in which my colleagues flexed their excellent verbalization skills, pontificating and deliberating forever and ever without ever really concluding anything. The French loved to hear themselves talk. (Or, as Steve Martin said, in better humor than me, “Boy, those French. They have a different word for everything.”) Plus, it had been two months since Fred and Isa had left and they still hadn't been replaced. We were understaffed, and I was juggling a workload meant for three. In New York, my creative directors would have called in a small army of freelancers. In Paris, my inquiries about replacements and requests for help were met with utter silence.