Introduction
In the vein of philosophy, I ask what is truth. What is the truth of Paris and what is the distance between it and my documentation of life in the city of lights?
Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast is his version, or to be more precise, his grandson’s version of Hemingway’s memory of early twentieth century Paris. In this attempt to record my experience as an expatriate living in a mythical city, I would like to suppose that creative liberties can be taken with the truth. In other words my dear reader, this work may be partially fictitious, any resemblance to real events and persons, living or dead, may be purely coincidental.
Soldes. It takes some to resist that word. Yet, I did not have any impulse to spend money on my second day in Paris. I spent my first in the suburbs with my aunt who went to the outlets to return a top, or in French, une chémise. I did not buy anything there either.
“来日方长。” I thought, which means “the days are long.”
The Galeries Lafayette are three strategically design retail buildings. The largest (I believe) is the womenswear and accessories building. It is perhaps the most iconic and monumental one amongst the three. Arguably the one with the highest revenue. The ground level was dedicated to beauty products and luxury brands. To place the luxury labels on the level accessed first is the management’s tactic to attract alighting tourists from the nearby Charles de Gaulle bus stop, who could have chose to step into the competitively close Printemps buildings instead.
Luxury continues into the second floor, or the “premiere étage”, while the third is the marginally more affordable youth fashion labels, followed by more affordable “seductive fashion”, which caters to middle-class or upper middle-class middle-age women. The fifth is children’s fashion, which features high-fashion houses such as Dior, and the sixth is souvenirs, books and a food hall. The basement is tax refund and an overwhelming selection of shoes. There, the accompanying men, who, for whatever reason, did not venture into the mens’ building would likely meet with a blow of despair as their ladies begin a new round of spending. They might even choose to go to the mens’ or gourmet building to kill time. In doing so, these men may contribute to the revenue of Galeries Lafayette. I told you they were clever.
My adventure to this rabbit hole was an explorative one. I wanted to familiarize myself with this Parisian icon (although I suspect that the only Parisians in there were perhaps the sales associates). More accurately, I wanted to familiarize myself with this city. Shopping seemed like a good start.
I went straight for the youth labels on deuxième étage. Maison Kitsuné was my target. I distinctly remember its exact position in the store from my first visit to Galeries Lafayette last summer. The brand occupied a minute fraction of the layout next to Comme des Garçon, opposite Kenzo. Interestingly, my closet never housed a piece of Maison Kitsuné’s clothing, or Kenzo for that matter. I have a small black wallet from Comme des Garçon, disguised as a brand-less article in its anonymous design.
Maison Kitsuné appealed to me as a company. It began as a collaboration between a Japanese and French creative. Gildas Loaëc and Masaya Kuroki started Maison Kitsuné as a hybrid of music and fashion. As a record label, Kitsuné gained recognition as electronic music record label. Similarly, it received a cult following in fashion. Café Kitsuné, a later food and beverage venture of the duo, became a tourist destination for the cool crowd. I enjoyed examining the products of this cultural capitalist, even though their clothing did not align with my style despite my efforts to incorporate it. I had entered their fitting rooms with cautiously selected pieces before in vain.
After my visual tryst in that section, I proceeded to the gourmet building. As I passed the menswear building on the way over, I thought of the male members of my family - namely my teenage brothers who are in the process of developing a sartorial identity, and my father who has one but is always too busy to supplement it. I decided that it would be better for them to come in person, since it would be a significant period of time before I reunite with any of them. Nonetheless, I was also guilty of being too lazy to concern my with things not for myself. The balls of my feet were also sending signs of fatigue.
The gourmet building was another wonderland. The macaron patisserie, Sadaharu Aoki, was the first thing that caught my eye. Not because of any preference to the pasty but because of what the Aoki macarons mean to me - I had tasted them before as souvenirs from two friends back in Asia whenever they traveled to Tokyo. An eclair bar, L’Éclair de Génie, which had a black layout stood opposite the white decor of Sadaharu Aoki in stark contrast. The assortment of pastries were displayed like curated museum pieces. And practicing the tradition of museum visits, “No touching”, I only feasted with my eyes.
Blood orange
I got envious of my friends across the Atlantic,who were enjoying the succulent blood oranges of California that were in season. The pictures shared appeared on my dashboard and my love of this specific breed of citrus was reignited by its brilliant hue in retina display.
“L’Orange Sanguine? Printemps, Madame.” replied the vendor when I asked in my butchered French for blood oranges at Marché Saint-Honoré. It seems my craving can only be satisfied in two months.
“Ahh, I see…Merci, au revoir.” I replied. I still did not know how to say, “I see”, in French. Neither did I know yet that, “au revoir, merci” would be a far superior choice of syntax.
I began to wonder, did Hemingway yearn for anything American during his time in Paris? Did he ever feel homesick? Then again, it seemed premature for me to have America as my target of homesickness. After all, I had only spent a semester there. However, there was something about its accessibility that makes me miss life there. The language barrier of French crippled my assimilation into Paris and I did not like the clumsiness of being handicapped in this manner.
Later in that week, I found a fruit store that had Italian blood oranges for sale. This fruit store, Le Palais du Fruits, also sold Golden Pears from China. I was tempted to buy them, but these pears with high water content were not enjoyed as a harsh winter fruit. At least not for Parisian winter. They were typically enjoyed in the south of China, where winters were much more mild, or in summer.
As for the blood oranges, I did not buy them. Not the first time I saw them at Le Palais du Fruits. You see, they were halfway blood oranges. The peel was only bruised with the sanguine red, and the flesh merely tinted - a far cry from the in-season, robustly florid ones of the West Coast.
However, I relented by the second visit. As much as I did not want to half-satisfy my gastronomical desires, the miserly trace of citrus hemoglobin (actually, anthocyanin) was able to sway my consumerist ego.
Which other citrus could have the splendor of the blood orange? I was utterly in love with the insinuated bloodlust of this fruit.
“L’orange sanguine.”
It sounded even more seductive in an European tongue. The adjective “sanguine” evoked a sense of gregariousness and a desire to excel. A generosity and intensity of some sort.
My reader, from my preference of citruses you can infer that I am a person extremities. You see, I enjoy grapefruits, lemons and limes, indulge in blood oranges and only exceptionally colored mandarins, and I cannot tolerate oranges. Oranges are the mark of mediocrity. It does not have the taste of hardship like the grapefruit nor that of extravagance of the blood orange. Only uninspiring mediocrity. And who can have that?
I returned to my apartment after the grocery shopping. Immediately, I refrigerated the fruits. They can almost always only be enjoyed cold. The bite into chilled flesh is a simple and unparalleled pleasure.
My desire to enjoy something at its best (or in this case, the best it can be now), overrode my impatience. I sliced into the premature blood orange the next day. As expected, the anthocyanin had not dyed the fruit wholly. I could see traces of mundane orange in each locule.
“Above average,” I thought. “Above average” in the spectrum of citruses, but that fruit would fall into the category of “disappointing” in the performance scale of blood oranges.
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