La Fondation Louis Vuitton

In the midst of all the insanity taking place on Parisian streets lately, I was nonetheless determined to visit one of the chicest cultural hotspots in the city: La Fondation Louis Vuitton. Located in the Bois de Boulogne, just outside the péripherique, the Fondy LV – as I like to refer to it – is an architectural marvel dedicated to art exhibitions which rotate on a seasonal basis. Currently exhibiting the work of a personal fav, Egon Schiele, whose work I initially became obsessed with following a trip to Vienna’s Leopold Museum, as well as Jean-Michel Basquiat, I felt a visit was an absolute personal obligation before bidding a farewell to Paris in time for Christmas.

After a slightly muddy walk through the woods, all the while rocking out to the seasonal bop that is Winchester Cathedral Choir’s rendition of ‘In the Bleak Midwinter’, the swooping glass heights of the museum’s exterior beckoned me to a clearing. It was a very poetic moment, and I felt like Snow White. Anyway, the queue was practically non-existent owing to the fact it was a sullen Wednesday afternoon, so after being vetted for potential terror threats – a classic Parisian experience – I bought my ticket and strut through the door!

Upon entry, I was a little shocked to discover that one of the museum’s staff, the very same who had been allocated to ticket-checking, was someone I had previously encountered in dramatic and rather scandalous circumstances. Feeling this may have been a bad omen, I was perhaps slightly nervous that my visit to Fondy LV would be cursed by infrared flashbacks of bitch-fests and club nights on the midnight city streets, but thankfully, no such psychologically scarring happenings occurred. I’m very aware that what I just wrote is probably completely indecipherable to everyone reading this post, so let’s move on.

My first stop was the Egon Schiele exhibition. Not really sure what to say about this as I’m not an art critic, and a badly edited Wikipedia article would probably be of more insight, but what I can tell you is that I very much enjoyed. The exhibition perhaps wasn’t as good as the work currently on-show in Vienna, but I’d go as far to say that it’d be of interest to any fan of Schiele’s oeuvre, or anyone interested in the existential expressionist line of the body which differentiates the internal corpse to that of external warfare – I mean, lol who isn’t?!

Afterwards, I spent some time looking at the Basquiat collection, which was much more extensive, and very well-displayed. Unfortunately, I can’t provide any further insight into this exhibition as I’m not a huge fan of this particular artistic movement, undoubtedly due to my own ignorance. However, everyone else seemed to be interested, which can only be a good thing!

One thing I would say to all curators / museum designers currently employed at La Fondation Louis Vuitton: please make your loos a bit easier to find, and install a normal cafe, please! I mean, the restaurant on the ground floor did look lovely, but as a penniless solo visitor, I wasn’t really in the mood to spend upwards of 50 euros on a miniscule plate of parmesan foam when all I really wanted was a hot choc with some mini marshmallows.

xoxo

Merci, Suivant

I think what I resent the most about having to sit in an office all day doing pointless work, is not being able to move about. Sure, one can refresh their cup of tea for the thousandth time that afternoon, or once again, pretend to go to the toilet, but being able to take a solitary stroll, inhale all that polluted air, and gaze longingly at Parisian facades is what really takes the biscuit R.E. being an intern prisoner / slave.

So, of a sombre, wintry morning, I decided to wake up an hour early for the purpose of enjoying the sunrise in Montmartre. Living just a five minute walk away from Toulouse-Lautrec's old stomping ground really does have its perks. While I can find myself enjoying the spectacular view from the summit of Sacré-Cœur in just a matter of moments, I have a clear-cut path of where my morning wanders will take me when the feeling strikes! I decided to skip breakfast chez moi and instead, head to Gontran Cherrier, one of the best boulangeries to be found in the 18th arrondissement. Opting for the classic choice of un croissant aux amandes (and a matcha-white chocolate scone, oops), I breathed in my surroundings all the while inhaling layers of delicious, flaky pastry. Talk about multi-tasking, potes.

When you can, take time to do something just for yourself. Although forcing yourself into the land of the living one hour before you absolutely must may seem to be a deeply unappealing slog, you'll say a little merci when you find that the empty morning streets are a perfect setting of pre-work reflection, and limb-stretching. Looking back on my time in Paris, these will be the moments I remember, not rushing to apply winged eyeliner in the dimly lit salle de bain of my apartement while blasting Ariana Grande's 'thank u, next' for the gazillionth time.

xoxo

Dimanche

Sundays in Paris are different. As the weekend draws to its sombre close, Parisians amble down narrow streets, flock to the lush smells of the local farmer’s market, plucking rotisserie chickens from ovens and stowing them away to serve later, and leisurely sip ristretto behind cosy café glass. Of course, Sundays in Paris can be just as frustrating as they appear idyllic. For a start, everything’s closed. Thinking of popping to your local supermarché for a last-minute baguette? Think again! Really, how could you be so stupid?! Parisians know not to leave such a thing to chance, not to leave final needs unmet when God’s day rolls around.

I found myself in a particular panic this morning, as I woke to find my index finger had swollen to the size of a jumbo mozzarella stick. Being allergic to insect bites, and having experienced nasty side-effects in the past, I frantically searched for a nearby 24/7 pharmacy, and scuttled over in the blustery rain before paying a small fortune to avoid imminent leprosy. Determined not to allow certain dermatological setbacks ruin my weekend, I bought an overpriced Carrefour lunch, and headed over to the Marais for the purpose of ticking another museum off my list.

Having successfully visited a large majority of Paris’ finest museums during my year abroad, something I still feel nicely smug about, I had yet to go to La Maison de Victor Hugo. As a superfan of Les Misérables, I felt this was a necessary sight to see, and was even happier when I found out that entry was totally gratuit! With stunning views over the La Place des Vosges, Hugo’s Parisian apartment was the very place the author wrote the novel that, let’s face it, launched Susan Boyle’s career. While walking around, gazing at some incredibly gaudy wallpaper, I thought about how much nicer the dusty, dark apartment was in comparison to my current digs, and then began to feel a little bit jealous.

Not one to revel in jealousy of author’s long deceased, I decided to make my way over to Shakespeare & Co. in order to find some new reading material. I was really longing for something a little Christmassy, but ended up settling for a 4-euro edition of Sense & Sensibility, before enjoying an extremely overpriced hot chocolate in the adjoining café. See, both book and hot chocolate were ultimately necessary in regards to the establishment and perpetuation of suitable doses of Christmas spirit. Being away from family, from warm blankets that smell like Yankee Candles, and from nostalgic reruns of Midsomer Murders, does wonders for the gradual depletion of all joy in one’s life. All dramatics aside, it can be hard to feel safe and happy when you live alone, are barely scraping by on your intern’s wage, and don’t have the means to spend money on frivolous Christmas ornaments.

Although I decided to make the most of my Sunday in Paris, even ending up in La Défense to enjoy the Christmas market and sample the obligatory Nutella crepe with friends, December is not always an easy time of year. There’s such pressure to consistently feel all a-glow in the lead-up to Christmas, when it’s really the simple things that we forget to appreciate. While I undoubtedly had a lovely day, even though it was a tad stressful and rainy, I shall be looking forward to stepping onto British soil to enjoy the festive season, hopefully with a few more life arrangements intact.

xoxo

What Can Prue Do For You?

Style icons of the 21st century: Mary Berry (L) and Prue Leith (R)

Last night was Bake Off, which naturally meant that I was splayed in front of my minuscule television with a bowl of raisins, getting ready to lament the fact that I had opted for raisins as a TV snack instead of, let's say, an enormous Black Forest Gateau. Regardless of my less than stellar caloric intake, as with every Tuesday night, I was incredibly excited to enjoy just over an hour of Kim-Joy's eyeshadow, Rahul's stress-face and Prue's earrings.

While I usually, to a certain extent, admire the sartorial inclinations of Ms Leith - her rainbow glasses, bright orange jackets, and resin jewellery - it can all get a little much at times. Take last night's ensemble for example. Having adorned herself with Breton stripes, a sleeveless woollen cobalt cardigan, red 'n' yellow specs, and a pendulous necklace which looked like it was made of office supply stationery, I couldn't help but feel a slight migraine coming on.

Yet, the Bake Off of 2018 has somehow transformed itself into a melting pot of garish prints, multi-coloured hair extensions, and wooden accessories made to look like a forest floor. Of course, I have no quibbles with any of this - except, perhaps, Manon's ponytail - but what was once just a modest little show that would have been scandalised at the thought of a contestant wearing mismatched socks, is now practically a cosplay free-for-all.

Without thinking that Bake Off's fashion fads are the product of a combined effort by Kate Bush look-a-like, Noel Fielding, and Draco Malfoy look-a-like, Sandi Toksvig, we should really all point our raisin-covered fingers at the sweet, petite octogenarian treat that is Mary Berry. Remember the media storm conjured by Bez's penchant for a floral bomber? You can't tell me that such a choice of garms did not set the wheels a-turnin'. Now, while a floral bomber jacket seems commonplace for old and young alike, rather than the sizzling fashion statement it once was, it takes a little more daring to elicit the enthused shrieks of the style section.

Which prompts the question: as far as the sartorial stakes are concerned, is Prue a worthy successor of the late, great (and thankfully still living) Ms Berry? Taking a look at current trends, it's clear that bold earrings in a range of wacky colours and shaped have taken the high-street by full force. While I am admittedly a little bitter that it's only now that my obsession for hideous ear-candy is finally somewhat socially acceptable - although, who *really* cares about being accepted by society - I am thrilled at the prospect of expanding my beloved collection of costume tat.

As for the glasses, while such vibrant frames may not have fully taken off in terms of consumer wear, Kirk & Kirk's glorious kaleidoscope specs are a decided nod toward Ms Leith's personal style, and are sure to influence a coming wave of visually-impaired fashionistas. What's more, Autumn appears set to shake off the dusty, dying leaves of its signature shades - think miserable maroon, gangrenous green, and boring Bordeaux - in favour of a brighter palette. In the capacity of someone who has eternally despised the muddy hues of October dress, I cannot thank Prue's seemingly Pride-inspired wardrobe enough!

Topshop's Polka Dot Mobile Drop Earrings - £14.50 || Kirk & Kirk's Miles Spectrum Glasses - £310.00

Even though Prue's look is a little too 'modern-art-installation' for me, I cannot help but love its contribution toward this conceivable embracing of man-repelling fashion. It seems to me that more and more woman are caring less and less about how sexually attractive their personal style is to men, spurning the very real conception of 'self-voyeurism' as explained by Margaret Atwood. Although it's true that not much could repel the likes of Paul Hollywood, in a digital age where everyone and their grandma can become an 'influencer', I would much rather consumer style be influenced by the likes of a lovable grandmother with an overt appetite for gluten, than a size 6 body drinking iced coffee in an £80 white T-shirt.

And while she may no longer grace the iconic white tent, Mary Berry's infamous floral get-up was the principal reason why I chose to loyally tune-in each week. Fearless dressing and self-love is aiding an increased visibility of the older lady, all the while counteracting conceivably more harmful forces of social influence. For those of us (me) more interested in looking insane whilst consuming sugar, butter, and chocolate all at the same time, Prue Leith could be the answer to our (my) prayers. Now, just to wait until my perfect vision deteriorates!

xoxoxo

Review: Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman

I first saw Call Me by Your Name last December at Edinburgh’s independent Cameo cinema. What initially began as an innocent meander along a vague interest in the fiery nostalgia of the trailer ended in a near-death experience facilitated by an endless stream of tears. I will not write that I have never before been so emotionally sucker-punched by a film because, hey, I’ve seen A.I. like three times and do not even *begin* to tell me that the forest abandonment scene is not the most heart-wrenching thing you have ever had the (dis)pleasure of viewing! So yes, I will not write that, but I will emphasise that watching the credits of Luca Guadagnino’s chef-d’oeuvre slither down upon Timothée Chalamet’s sorrowful gaze was a similar experience to that of witnessing your entire life crumble into meaningless ash around your feet.

Regardless of these not-even-remotely dramatic sentiments, I did not switch on my laptop and bother to open a 34^th Microsoft Word document to write a lengthy review of Chalamet’s beauty and Guadagnino’s brains. I do, however, intend to share my thoughts on the silent assassin that started this whole mess: André Aciman’s original text.

The novel nosedives into the psychological ambling of the 17-year-old protagonist, Elio Perlman, without allowing the reader an opportunity to brace themselves. Almost the entirety of Aciman's prose reads as a stream-of-consciousness, as Elio decides, and then undecides, plans, and then unplans, ponders, and then continues to ponder in even greater profundity, the very essence of his feelings, whether they be good, bad, or lustful, about his family's summer house-guest, Oliver.

While such a narrative style has the potential to drive one absolutely potty with frustration, this novel must be the only one of its kind to convey the swoops and soars of first love / borderline infatuation with unflinching honesty and continued intrigue. Long story short, it somehow kind of works. Although the vast majority of its 250 pages try to unlock and categorise the hormonal frenzy of the protagonist rather than stray into the realm of having an actual plot, the text is never dull, never self-righteous or overly gratuitous, and the dialogue is always wonderfully honest.

Initially causing mild alarm and disbelief, the extent to which Elio's adoration became obsessive was occasionally difficult to swallow. As the film unravels at a luxuriously slow pace, like a cat unfurling itself on a sun-drenched patio, such intense infatuation is not communicated to the same degree as in the text. Admitting that this did render the 17-year-old sometimes slightly less personable in my eyes, as soon as the reader is able to understand the reciprocity of emotional feeling, it dwindles in its mild insanity.

Always the cynic, perhaps my unease in taking to the strength of Elio's love is part in parcel due to the fact that I am yet to experience the depth of worship conveyed throughout the text. I mean, golly, does it really set your standards high for love. Not only love, but personal discovery, sacrifice,  consciousness, and appreciation. Take my favourite quotation from the novel as an example of this:

Like every experience that marks us for a lifetime, I found myself turned inside out, drawn and quartered. This was the sum of everything I'd been in my life - and more: who I am when I sing and stir-fry vegetables for my family and friends on Sunday afternoons; who I am when I wake up on freezing nights and want nothing more than to throw on a sweater, rush to my desk, and write about the person I know no one knows I am, who I am when I crave to be naked with another naked body, or when I crave to be alone in the world; who I am when every part of me seems miles and centuries apart and each swears it hears my name.

Yeah, really deep - but comprehensible! Perhaps we, who do not possess Aciman's genius writing talents but feel that we're worthy of human kindness nonetheless, can all relate to this feeling, yet would never be able to articulate it in such a perfect way. This particular passage comes from an entire chapter dealing with what is called the San Clemente Syndrome. While this chapter is a little difficult to wrap your head around, in it Aciman compares the human experience to the Basilica of San Clemente in Rome, a sacred sight upon which layers and layers of new stone intent for new purposes are built on top of each other. Representative of the construction of an inner sacred site, within which total love for the other is imbued, Elio nd Oliver's stint in Rome entirely consecrates their relationship as eternal in the face of separation. One of the most important parts of the novel, the denouement is undoubtedly one of the most emotive pieces of literature that I have ever read.

Sure, it all seems a bit gushy, but taking time to quietly reflect upon the message here communicated by Aciman, Call Me by Your Name is an incredible book, an almost eulogy, that speaks for all love.

5 Patsy's out of 5

Portobello Promenade

Living in Edinburgh, Portobello Beach & Joppa Pans represent perhaps the most exotic nook that the city has to offer. Always choc-a-bloc with sunseekers on a relatively (above 15 degrees) hot day, the east side of the promenade is arguably the most picturesque corner, offering Gothic mansions surrounded by higgledy-piggeldy brick walls, long green lawns, and quirky cafes and bars. When the weather permits, I like to walk along the blustery seafront, pick up shells on the sandy beach, and watch the waves crashing on the shore. Of course, it's not exactly Venice Beach, but it's quaint and homely and cheerful.

Having grown up next to the sea, the Solent to be exact, the big blue doesn't exactly set my heart a-fluttering. While most people gawk with envy after learning that my secondary school was a mere two minutes walk from ocean breezes and views of the Isle of Wight, it could not have seemed more drab to 16-year-old me. Now, after living almost exclusively in city centres since beginning university, I am starting to understand the appeal of al mare. Cathartic, cool, and crisp, the sea, the sea, the sea.

Today, I did my usual walk along the prom, checking out a few of the delightful looking grub-stops along the high-street, and attempting to take pictures of rich people's houses. Very embarrassing, I must say, when an elderly lady comes directly to the window to clearly see the faux-fur clad girl admiring the facade through the lens of her iPhone camera. And, yes, all of the above pictures are taken by iPhone, while it's more than likely that all future graphic content will be, as well. What can I say, I don't have a camera. Anyway, if you're in the Edinburgh area, I most definitely recommend a trip to the city's seaside, while more specific recommendations will have to wait for another hastily scribbled post.
xoxo

Breezing Through Bruges (and Occasionally Brussels)

The second major part of my travels circa June, 2016 began and ended in Belgium, a small and rather Sylvanian Families-like country famed for its obesity rendering foodstuffs and its incomprehensibly confusing polyglot population. During my three and a half day stint, my friend and I stayed in a hotel in Brussels, yet traveled two of those days to Bruges, Belgium's crowning glory as far as architecture, ambiance, and beauty is concerned.

When Disney made Snow White (I'm not sure why Disney's animations seem to be my consistent point of reference, but let's go with it) they undoubtedly looked to Bruges for inspiration. Unwinding like a labyrinth tailor made for the Seven Dwarfs, turrets, gold leaf, pastel facades and flower boxes flow past its visiting population as seamlessly as the water which enhances the city's enchantment.

During our time in Bruges, my friend and I enjoyed a boat cruise - you'll see many of these little bateaux floating around town - as well as takeaway Chinese next to the water, a visit to hundreds upon hundreds of chocolate shops, while also finding the time to pull up a chair in two of the wide selection of outdoor cafe terraces in order to enjoy a hot beverage. Although it's a shame that a few of the waiters we received were unreasonably frosty, Bruges is a wonderful city full of friendly faces, and permeates a relaxed atmosphere.

The train to Bruges from Brussels - while operating one of the least reliable and confusing train services I have ever experienced - took around 90 minutes from start to finish. Why did we insist on escaping to this beautiful place in favour of Belgium's actual capital? Simply because, by comparison, Brussels was a little lacklustre ...

Don't get me wrong, it's not like the city housing the European Parliament alongside the most concentrated selection of waffles ever to be found is a bad place, I just wouldn't recommend going out of your way to take a visit. Besides the Grand Place, the Mannekin Pis is feeble, the atmosphere is less than buzzing, the opportunities for good shopping is lacking, and other sights such as the Royal Palace appear in a state of near desertion. Focused most heavily on its role of diplomacy, Brussels' status as a European capital lays in its importance as a political powerhouse. Other than that, its seeming lack of authentic charm would be enough to put off a second visit.
xoxo