“We’re no fun anymore,” I announce to Blair. Breakfast conversation had dwindled. Harika is the only one who is met with effusive greetings at the Fleurus or Hippocampus, two of our early morning haunts.
“I know how to fix that: we need to do something interesting every day,” I go on. “Every other day,” Blair chides. “Then we’ll have something to talk about.”
We made our first foray last night to Vogue’s Fashion Night 2010, on avenue Montaigne. With Harika, doing her best to look like an Irish wolfhound, we took the 63 bus to the location. It was easy to see where the event was taking place. Pencil thin women dressed in black tottered on frighteningly high heels toward Avenue Montaigne. I saw a pair of crutches leaning on a fence by the Plaza Athene.
In the windows I saw lots of fur (Harika likes that). I recall the clothes as being black, grey and various neutrals. What stood out to me was a woman in a silk dress with full skirt patterned in what I would describe as clowns and flowers. In fact, not far away was a shop festooned with clown balloons, and a band of performers. Women in dresses featuring pale neons on silk and a clown motif abounded. It put me in the mind of the circus or the racetrack, but in fact it was a new boutique on the Avenue Montaigne called Mahoun. It was anything but typical, but was riotous fun – models and clothes you could touch and hug and dance in.
Otherwise, fashion night seemed to be a serious affair. The attendees were dressed, almost entirely, IN BLACK. The only place they allowed themselves to “come out” was in their shoes. We saw fabulous shoes: strappy, laquered-looking, metal trims – my personal favorites were what I would describe as a pair of short red-leaning-to-coral boots with bright magenta “spats”. Otherwise the outfit was black.
Handsome black men in very expensive suits (black or variations on black, of course) stood at the doors – they were very beautiful themselves. Models of serious height and dramatic visage sported the clothes for sale inside the boutiques. To me, they were more lovely and impressive than what they wore: beautiful buffed skin, hair brilliantly coiffed, makeup that seemed to come from an unearthly source. I would like to paint them, like El Greco figures.
We walked up and down the street in our own bohemian togs. Crossing the bridge at Alma, Harika breathed a sigh of relief as she rolled in the grass near the entrance to the sewer tour.
We stayed out rather late, walking almost the whole way home. I cooked pork chops for dinner, with apples, radishes and prunes, inspired by the colors of Mahoun. Mahoun describes itself as gypsy style with a bohemian soul. I think that describes Blair and I and Harika perfectly.