I've discovered a new favorite brand (or shall we saw dream brand, since I can't afford a button from the brand at this point in my life.) It that is just so CUTE! (Sorry, just can't avoid using the word to describe Manoush. I mean, there's a heart on each end of the website title, and the catalog cover model is holding a baby chick. So there: clearly no other word fits.)

But I can specify a bit more about this French women's clothing line, whose boutique I first noticed on my way to class along Rue Faubourg St. Honore (yes, I was lucky in my little Parisian set-up this fall), and that I happily discovered is sold here as well: I found a few Manoush tops peeping out from a few clothing racks at Bloomingdales this week!

Anyways, Manoush is girly and glittery, but tougher and louder than, say, Anthropologie. A bit of 1960's inspiration, à la Paul & Joe, and most definitely some funky, eclectic, playful, and almost funny outfits (orange rain galoshes- (yeah, fitting today that's for sure)- over equally pumpkiny-orange tights, under a grey short, puffy dress), and, finally, lots of COLOR! (Thank goodness, it's about time! I swear the word for Paris women's fashion this year is black and grey. and black and grey. and the same grey boots with black skinny jeans. with a big slouchy black purse. and some more black and grey. Sheesh, more repetitive than I'd expect!) So anyways, it was refreshing to find someone (Manoush) stepping far, far away from this monotonous style. (Although these Parisian belles do manage to look chic, put together, understated, and still sexy, I'm sorry, I get bored of black and grey.) So Merci, Manoush, I look forward to wearing you someday soon!

As for now, I don't know what stores, other than Bloomingdales, carry Manoush. But I shall research now! Until then, at www.manoush.com you can view their collections and a fun catalog, as well.

Cute, cute cute!

Hope you have as much fun as I did perusing the clothes (and horses and chicks and other wonderfully silly props) on the online catalog. And check 'em out at Bloomie's.

C'est tout!

I feel like a puppy who's just performed a trick, earned a treat, and is now the happiest, proudest little creature on earth. Why? Because the sketch I drew today at the Louvre ( no big deal, you know, hop on over to the Louvre to see 11th century French sculptures on my way to yoga. FOR free, thanks to me taking an art history class and getting the prized Louvre Carte Jeune, which I proudly flash every time I visit the museum, basically every Sunday)... anyways, the sketch I drew is actually pretty. It's good! The woman does not look like a man, nor an alien, nor an ambiguous-gender creature. She is not absurdly proportioned, and her head resembles quite accurately a human head. (If you happened to read my post a few days ago, you'd know what the little sweet 7-year old angel of a girl sitting next to me at the Louvre last week informed me: ""Yeah, I can see you have trouble drawing heads, and bodies." Grr, thanks for bursting my proud drawing bubble, dearie dear! But alas, finally Nicola has succeeded. Or at least progressed. HAH, so there! Take a look at my posing nude Venus sketch, little chica. Because it's pretty darn good!

Despite forgetting my pencil (Of course I walk all the way to the Louvre to draw, and forget the one thing I need to draw. Just like I forgot the two absolutely imperative items for yoga, a sports bra and undies, on my way out. Luckily, I actually remembered them and dashed back up to my room. Intelligent Nicola...)

Anyways, once at the Louvre, realized that I'd forgotten my pencil, so had to borrow from an obviously annoyed, surprisingly snotty, I'm-a-Parisian art-student boy, probably no more than my age, and initially kind of cute, minus the attitude. (Attitude doesn't do it for me. Generally because I believes it reflects almost always a level of insecurity, and that is probably what actually detracts me.) So, after reluctantly lending me his "stylo", I got going at my version of sketching. Circles, squares, attempts at forms for body parts.

What am I doing, Nicola, I thought. Pretending to be an artist, sitting here at the Louvre with my Monoprix legal pad-turned-sketchbook, my gigantic, overflowing purse spilling onto the museum floor, revealing its non-artistic nor intellectual contents (yoga materials and make-up and cell phones (U.S. and French, yeah, you bet that racks up a huge bill.) Oh, and a clementine, for a pre-sketch snack.) Clearly not fitting into these Pro-sketchers surrounding me.

So. As always, a very rough and un-inspired start to my drawing. But something floating around the air (maybe a little Fragonard cupid? A Muse? The Mona Lisa?) gave me a little magic artist dust. Or maybe it was the adorable Italian girl, who, with the help of her dad, thanked me for letting her watch me sketch. Obviously favor her over last week's Louvre girl. So I'm a little bitter.)

Well, point is, something went right, because I came out of my drawing session with a sketch that I am 300 percent, genuinely proud of. I'm so excited. When you do something well, you generally want to keep doing it. So maybe I'll actually get into my regular drawing routine I've been trying to do since I started the "Dessin: Nature Mort" class at Le Croix-Nivert art school.

I love getting motivated, I love learning! It's almost as satisfying as my Ricoré + Lu cookies nightly 11 o'clock snack (Notice, it's 11:18 here, you can sure bet I just finished my last cookie. See, I like trying to form little routines here in my new temporary Parisian life. Even if my routines are no less banal than evening cookies, lunch time Jambon-Fromage-Crudites baguette sandwiches, reading the "Metro" daily free newspaper on the metro, stopping into "The Mazet" English-style pub for Happy Hour, or sketching a nude angel.

It makes you feel a little more at home, having just any routine, so I guess it's alright that mine isn't as extraordinary as I'd hoped! (For example, an internship at Glamour France. I admit, as I often do, was being a bit idealistic with my availability. But it sure would have been cool to work for Glamour even if for two months! But let's be realistic Nicola. You can enjoy just reading Parisian glamour while you're here.) Instead, I've been able to pursue my "artistic" ventures, and for once I can say I succeeded : )

See, I didn't exaggerate when I said that one sketch made me as happy as a puppy.

Question of the day: Will Nicola be able to survive a Paris Sunday, which means no shops open and therefore no shopping? Or, will she give in like usual, and sneak on over to the Marais? (Which, being the Jewish and Gay quarter, is alive and thriving on Sundays).

My Sunday goal was to march on over to the Louvre and check out some of the temporary exhibits I haven't seen (One is solely Islamic art: imperative to see. Because how many floating cupids and clouds and saints and mythological  creatures have I seen, and how much Islamic art? A bit more of the first) and then maybe do some drawing.

So, will I stick to my only-cultural and educational plan for this Sunday? Or continue on my search for another pair of boots, a hat, a black short dress to wear with my wool tights...

 Alright, stopping now Nicola. Going to the Line 1 metro, stopping at Louvre-Rivoli, NOT St. Paul Marais. Come on, you can do it.

Wish me Bon Courage! 

 (Notice my gleaming, proud smile in the photo, clearly proud that I've found a consignment store open on Sundays. Jeez louise, the things I call accomplishments.)

Well, last night I got a glimpse of Paris nightlife for the chic and, naturally, the snobbery that comes with it. For Nicola, the mere peasant, was refused entrance into the "Bal des Princesses" at Maxim's. And yes, contrary to what I expected, t'was truly a ball (well, from what I could see from the outside.) Of a bunch of princesses. The theme being 18th century dress, my friends and I thought, you know, we'll be fine if we throw on a tiara or a ruffly skirt (ok, my black 3 euro slip from P'star, a jam-packed, kitchy thrift store in the Marais, looked more like a Spanish senora's undergarment and was also four sizes too big for me) or a corset-ed dress (and yes, Erica's was closer to a German barmaid's than an 18th century gown).. and, to make the discrepancy even bigger between what we were supposed to look like, every party of frenchies had come dressed, literally, to the nines. That's clearly an understatement because they weren't just fancy, but were probably wearing items of clothing from the wardrome of a former french countess, to whom, they were probably related. I exaggerate not. I felt like I was at Versailles. And these people clearly thought they were royalty too. You know the nose up-in-the-air stereotype about the Parisians? Well one of these women's nose, it was as high as the eiffel tower.

I can generally deal with snobbery because I tend to just chuckle at it. But I have to admit, I felt a bit like the poor Cinderella dressed in shambles, pleading so very sincerely to be let in to this soirée. Except unlike Cinderella, Nicola didn't quite possess the luck or acquire the magic to be transported into the ball and the gown and the princess status. Therefore, I accepted my rejection from the "Count" (middle aged chubby Parisian man dressed like Monte Cristo, who snobbily informed me that, he was sorry, but I was not being let in, as my costume was clearly not sufficient), and wandered on home. But, not sad, because I actually enjoyed and took in the experience of waiting in line for this party more than I probably would have the actual party. It was like a spectacle! I felt like I was in a movie, watching on a screen this overly extravagant ball take place. It's the type of thing where I say, this would only happen in Paris, and that's pretty exciting, you have to admit. Because I without doubt know that if someone at home tried to throw this party, people would either think it too ridiculous or uppety or too much of an effort, and would no way get into it like these folk. I'd probably see a bunch of half-a**ed costumes (like my own) where as at Maxim's, this was how a costume ball should have been! So, despite the bitterness at being rejected by a middle-aged, plump french man in a ridiculous costume (but quite accurate, I give him my compliments), I was thoroughly pleased and fascinated to be a part of (shh, you know what I mean, to sneak a glimpse at) this more-than-affair. And going home rather than in, I got a better night's sleep because of it, so I could wake up and trek down to the Louvre today and see some real culture.

However, lesson learned if, next time I do want to actually participate in the festivities: do not skimp on the costume. After all, Marie Antoinette herself probably fête-ed the nights away in the same place- better be accurate and not mess with history, Nicola.

One would not think that one could actually be bored in Paris. But then again, with me, we're not talking about the average person who can deal with a little free time. And relaxing. With Nicola, she has some slight trouble dealing with doing nothing. Because even while in Paris, I find myself searching for ways to be productive, improve myself, forge contacts, educate myself as much as possible, I mean I think my mind wastes more time trying to find things to do than actually doing them. But seriously, I don't think any of the other study abroad students think twice about wandering through Paris or shopping, because it's just so amazing and they're probably enthralled by its greatness all the time. But I think for me, being so familiar with the city (step-dad being french and mom being obsessed with France), I came into this experience viewing the city like a home, not like a super exciting new touristy experience. Which means that the initial newness didn't occur with me. I was thrust into life.

So instead of walking down the Champs Elysées and being totally in awe and just thrilled to be there, I'd be thinking about, alright what's the most direct way of getting to the 6th arrondisement so that I can go searching for this store or where can I find a good yoga studio, how can I get my little life routine going. When what you're supposed to be doing is just ENJOYING paris! And, don't get me wrong. I thoroughly enjoy Paris. In fact, I just might be in love with it. But like a close love, like, Paris, I know you, you know me, we're past this tourist stuff. We don't need all these other people, these Americans. So, with this mindset, I'd end up passing entire days "exploring" the city, by myself, which often ended up being wandering for hours on end, from one arrondisement to the next- enjoying myself initially, but toward the end of the day, getting a bit drained and sick of myself, and realizing that, Nicola, you need PEOPLE!

Fact is, I adore the freedom of turning right at that Rue when I want, popping into that store (most of the time a "Depot-Vente", aka consignment store, where I can snag old french lady's vintage Chanel earrings or Hermes-style (sorry, still on a student's budget, yup yup) scarves or a heavy, wool, 10 thousand pound Sherlock-Holmes style trench coat (ok didn't buy that one, I don't think I'd be able to walk without collapsing)), or that store, or that street, you know, having no plan. But when it comes down to it, I've learned that no matter how independent you are, enjoying a city means enjoying it with people. Connection are what enrich our experiences.

Therefore, from now on when I wander, it's on the way to meeting up with a friend- and I use my knowledge to show them around, not selfishly keep Paris all to myself!

I'm happy with my little world of Paris my friend, which I gladly share with my friends here. It's quite nice. I can't complain!

Hopefully this isn't too much rambling. It's just been so long!

So today, as the lovely french transit workers are striking, I shall take my free day (classes are cancelled) to perhaps continue my attempts at drawing, at the louvre. After my Bikram yoga class, my new hobby. After the 10-day trial, I tried to avoid signing up for the month pass because, clearly it's expensive with the marvelous exchange rate. But I decided that only in Paris (namely in the Marais) would I have the opportunity to take yoga from tiny little french gay men in speedos with ponytails, who sound really funny ordering yoga commands in English with their accents.) So I signed up and I've gone already 3 times this week, despite the annoyance of carrying an "enorme" (the french love saying that for enormous/huge. Mon dieu, c'etaiti EH-norme!!") yoga mat with me as I trek around Paris. So here I go, another day in Paris as I attempt to be a Parisian with my little routine that is not much more than grammar class and drawing, some yoga, some babysitting, and a whole lot of mindless wandering, shopping, eating, drinking and just staring at the beauty that is this city. Well hey, that's my education, I'd say.

It's wonderful to be back to Splendora, it's missed me (again, french construction. Wow.) I mean: I've missed you.

And, of course, if anyone else happen to be in Paris, let me know! Although I love it here, it's always nice to connect with a good ole American!

Bisous, Nicola

Bonjour from Paris! Okay, switching into English: let's hope I haven't forgotten how to write correctly. It has been far too long that I haven't connected with my dear friend Splendora. (see there ya go, completely a french construction there in that sentence. "It has been far too long that I haven't connected" ?? Nicola, I don't think that even makes sense in English. Anyways, so clearly I have immersed myself into this glorious culture that is France and this (often ridiculous) culture that is Paris. But despite being fairly disconnected from the world at home, tis not forgotten! And frankly I miss splendora, San Francisco, ok even English, and so I'm back into my Splendora routine.

It's so easy to get so absorbed into life here that I often forget, that, despite Pleasant Hill life being slightly less as exciting as Paris, I do have a home there, and I forget how much I love it there! But really, there are just things that unfortunately (well fortunately for me for the next (gasp, so short!) 6 weeks), are better here. Namely the baguettes. I have now become even more of a bread snob (at home, refused to have baguettes the next day because they turn chewy. Here, I now have gotten to avoiding the "chain" bakeries, which mind you, are still legitimately Parisian, still totally hand made and artisan, and still ten times better than anything at home. But no, for some reason I feel worthy enough to critique even these and go for the non-chain boulangeries. Sometimes I think I'm turning into the dreaded Parisian snob! I mean, come on Nicola, you're lucky enough to have a friggin bakery on the corner of your street, and you're sighing as you go in to "Banette" buy your almond croissant, because you'd rather not be supporting this chain. Come on. And really. It ended up being the best (probably weighed 30 pounds, it was so dense) almond croissant you've had.

So no more of this snobbery. Because clearly I've been proven wrong, and chain or not, the boulangeries are legit. But I do still like the idea that I've gotten my Paysanne (country-ish, rustic style) baguette at a bakery that can only be found on one street corner, where the recipes are therefore totally unique to them. It's great, the number of different basic baguettes you'll get at each boulangerie. I don't understand how they come up with such varied flavors and textures with, what is it, flour, yeast, salt? water? I mean, how do you get such variety from that? Fascinating. And fascinating also, that I've written about...baguettes, for the past 30 lines. Of the unimaginably vast and varied culture that Paris offers (art galleries it seems as common as boulangeries, a museum as amazing as the Louvre, churches dating back to the Middle Ages, theater, opera, a total mix of cultures and diversity, historical buildings and institutions...) and Nicola talks about bread.

Nevertheless, this proves my point that it seems everything in Paris is an art. Even your starch.

I've been trying to tap my artistic side, by taking a "cours de dessin" (drawing class" at "Le Croix-Nivert" art school. Mind you, I'm often absolutely terrible, but I love it. We alternate between drawing either grapes/figs/pots/cups/chesnuts, and, naked people. Walking in fifteen minutes late to my first class, only to be presented with a volumptuous lady hanging from a rope, with a massive afro, completely nude, was quite a surprise, but very exciting and challenging. So I scurried to my easel and began my attempt at "Modele Vivante", since all I'd done before was the Nature Mort (the figs). I managed to make the model look like an overly masculin alien, and was told that I accentuated a roll of skin too much (personally I think it's more beautiful having curves and texture than a flat, boring stick body! My professor didn't think so and thought I wasn't being very nice. Woops.). Since then I've improved and when I went to the Louvre the other day to sketch a sculpture (that's what's nice about Paris, you're bored, you just hop on over and after a 30 minute walk you're at the Louvre and staring at a legendary, magnificent work of art) of a naked half-angel man (probably a mythical creature that I should know), I actually succeeded in making it look, somewhat nice.

I was extremely proud until the 8 year old girl who plopped down next to me on the bench (and who was "writing songs to Jesus"... don't ask. I didn't: just smiled and told her that her writing was really nice!) proved me wrong. After telling her that drawing bodies and heads were so hard for me, she responded, "Yeah, I can see that." Psh. Way to burst my bubble, gosh!

As I have written more than 5000 characters, I shall split this into two posts. See, this is what happens when you are bad and don't write for a whole month.

Hola from my new home for the next two weeks, Espagne!

As I speak  I am sitting in the computer room of the Cat´s Hostel, my residence for tonight and tomorrow, where I have the grand pleasure of occupying a room with nine other people, including two slightly awkarwd German fellows, two french mademoiselles who went out until 6 AM last night, and two american dudes whose primary subject of conversation is the various beers available in Spain, and how to find the most pints at the cheapest price. Ahh.. hostels. I have to admit, I do realize what a semi Princess I am, as the group showers which turn off if you don´t hold the button down, need to wear flip flops in the bathroom, the lack of space for my backpack, and limited breakfast selection (te quire uno croissant o donut?? my my, the choices!) did put me in a little huff. But you must sacrifice if you want to travel for four weeks as a student who makes a Peet´s Coffee salary. So, I put on my positive attitude and sped through my shower, practiced my spanish by complimenting the breakfast guy for the good coffee and, okay, I admit, great croissant (tu sabe, trabajo a uno cafe en California, y estoy muy criticale del cafe. Pero su cafe, es bueno!) and realized that, Nicola, you´re travelling through Spain at the age of 20, only to follow your travels with a 3 month study abroad bout in Paris, so tell me HOW on earth you can be huffing and complaining about anything. Sheesh, ya brat! So dirty showers and smelly travelling boys aside, I´m ready to explore Madrid and will promptly report back to Splendora, which I have sadly and unaccaptably neglected due  to the frequent limited availability of computers in my travels. But I´m back, y es bueno!

Please, someone explain me how it is July 27, in ten days I will be in Spain, in two months I will be fully living in Paris, and this period which approaches me will leave me totally separated for four months from my beloved Bay Area! I have no doubt that Nicola is ready to go abroad, to study in a new language, associate with people OTHER than with the title UCLA student, to run along the Seine instead of the Contra Costa canal trail, to LIVE and not just visit Paris, to have no qualms choosing wine over water (not because I am of age, I mean, but because it's cheaper!), to improve my unimaginably American French accent, to live on baguettes ad for any and every meal, to roam Les Galeries Lafayette in my free afternoons, to read (french books, therefore at a snower than snail's pace) in Luxembourg, and to just be far from the U.S. for a while- yes, I'm ready.Bbut, oh my, I love San Francisco, I love home, the wonderfully laid back and quirky Bay Area, the people, the trees, the food, the BART- I already have planted a massive chunk of my heart in San Francisco, and it's not going anywhere! I don't feel even remotely the same sentiment when I think about L.A., and the fact that after attending school there for two years, I won't have seen it for six months. In fact that's fine with me. I don't mind separating myself from the lines of Range-Rover-encased L.A.-ites, glued to their cell phones, practically plowing me over as I attempt to cross the cross-walk..the smog, nope, I can do without that as well, and the traffic? I'll pass. L.A. is fun, and I appreciate the culture, art, and the personality it does have- but I'm sorry, it has nothing in my eyes on San Francisco, which explains why, as I embark on my mini journey this fall, San Francisco will be the place I'll be proud to say I'm from- L.A.? not so much. And San Francisco will be whom I miss : (

I think my sinus infection really is getting to my head. I have not been acting myself, and it's mildly frightening me. I made the drive from LA to Santa Barbara, then the next day Santa Barbara to home (Pleasant Hill, at least a 5 hour drive) without stopping at any outlets. I actually had it in my travel plans to hit, if not Camarillo or Pismo Beach, then Gilroy for an end-of-the-drive reward (well deserved after driving my Mom's stick shift civic through highway 101 traffic, which I expected to be bad enough without the three accidents holding it up.) But it wasn't bad. Oh, it was traffic-y. Non-stop. But Nicola didn't mind. Choosing my not-caring attitude for the day meant it was going to take a lot to stress me out. As the overly-buff dude in the F-100000000050  Ford truck revved his engine in frustration at the traffic, I just laughed: at the ridiculous drivers like him, whose life goal seems to be asserting the masculunity and polluting the environment, laughed at the fact that I was driving a tiny Honda with two dachsund stickers on the back and a "UCLA Mom" emblem, laughed at the fact that I was jamming to the Central Valley's Top Christian Rock station. I've diverted but this does relate to my initial point. Because I didn't need the J.Crew, Calvin Klein, or Adidas outlet to cure any stresses. Laughing was enough! This doesn't mean that immediately upon arriving at home, I wasn't logged on to dailycandy.com searching for sample sales in San Francisco, or that I have actually come to the conclusion that I have enough clothes (what a preposterous thought!). Nope, haven't given up outlets or shopping. But for a day, how noble I did feel to pretend I had! 
Let's face it, though. We all know my real reason for not stopping was that I knew the Napa Outlets were waiting for me. Now I just have a reason to cruise on up there. And maybe hit Gilroy on the way down to LA this week. And maybe Pismo on the way up.