Ever wondered why French women don’t get fat?
Well, I read that diet book (conveniently titled “French Women Don’t Get Fat”) and discovered the irritatingly simple answer. Long story short: French women eat smaller portions, don’t order late night Domino’s and curb their mid-morning cravings with a cigarette instead of an Alpine bagel. Mais oui, the French woman eats little and smokes often, but that wasn’t the mystery I planned on solving when I left the good ol’ U.S. of A. for my study abroad in Paris (pronounced, Par-ee) this past summer.
Had I studied in Madrid like many of my fellow Dukies, I would have researched bullfighting and the mystery behind that notorious red cape. Had Rome been my host city for my summer stay abroad, I probably would have investigated the history of Italian cuisine and the origin of the guido. Had I found myself Down Under, it would have been my personal goal to ride in the pouch of a kangaroo, but I did not study in any of these places.
No, I went to Paris and my query about French women, specifically “la Parisienne,” was something I’d pondered ever since I flipped through my first Vogue and laid eyes on my first pair of Christian Louboutin red-bottomed heels. I’d puzzled over the legacy of Coco Chanel and the legendary little black dress. I’d unsuccessfully attempted to replicate that French look, “regard français,” with cheap Euro knock-offs from Zara and H&M. If I was going to spend time in Paris, the fashion capital of the world, I just had to crack the code: Why are French women so damn fashionable?
If you’ve been to Paris, surely you know the enigma I describe. The French woman, with so little effort yet so much natural elegance, dresses herself every morning, head to toe, in beautifully tailored clothes and shoes. Each piece molds perfectly to her curves, as if it were custom-made for her shape. Her ensembles are strategic as no two garments are from the same designer or the same season. In fact, many of her pieces aren’t even designer brands, but chosen instead for their everlasting style. The French woman’s individual pieces complement one another, but not in the matchy-matchy American way we wear our royal Duke sweatshirts with royal Duke sweatpants.
A small element of surprise lies in her accessories, whose splashes of bright color and unusual texture inimitably complete her ensembles. Her outfits are a host of unlikely combinations, Michael Jackson and Lisa Marie Presley or having Spanish class in the Bio Sci building. The French woman’s style, confidence and grace combine to form a lethal presence as she struts down the Champs-Elysées; she is a fashionista à la française.
With French fashion readily available to her, la Parisienne has an immense variety of shops, designers and couturiers to peruse. Her sense of style is unique, unlike any other on this planet. For moi, the French woman embodies all that is fashion and style, and while in Paris I wanted nothing more than to follow her lead. I’d return to Durham a new woman: well dressed, cultured and fabulous.
“I must dress like a French woman!” I declared after a week of practically salivating over these fabulously feminine, real-life models clacking down the Parisian streets. I’ll just buy a bunch of French clothes and voila, I’ll be instantly à la mode,” but my elementary plan was short-lived. After one too many trial and errors with frilly scarves and black leather pants, I tragically discovered that an American admirer such as myself couldn’t effortlessly reproduce this chic French style. I suffered from an incurable case of Paris envy.
My envy sparked me to ask my French idols questions—questions, in retrospect, I realize only a naive American girl would ask. My only references were my “well-dressed” American girlfriends in their Barbour jackets and tall Hunter Boots, but not even they were comparable to the French woman. I desperately needed to know how she looked so effortlessly fantastic—all of the time.
“Is it hard keeping up with all the latest fashion trends?”
“You must spend so much money every month on clothes and shoes! How do you afford to look so chic?”
“However do you have enough closet space in your ‘petit appartement’ for so much attire?”
Truly American, I asked first about trends, money and quantity. Fashion to me meant expensive taste, countless outfit options and the latest styles. Isn’t that what it means here? I was asking the wrong questions.
Turns out, the French woman is unfaithful to designers and popular trends. She owns very few pieces and picks and chooses when to spend her money; but when she spends, she spends. Her mindset is timelessness—buy that which will forever be in good taste, no matter the price. Comfort is a secondary consideration because if it is truly beautiful, she will wear it no matter its feel.
The French woman’s elegance, however, stems not entirely from her clothing, but from the way she carries herself, the pride she has for the importance of her own image, her regard.
Why isn’t the Duke girl as fashionable as her French counterpart? The answer lies in her impatience to find that perfect piece and constant desire to be “in style.” In France, the woman defines fashion, but in America and at Duke, the woman is defined by her fashion.
After feeling underdressed in Paris for an entire summer I realized therein lies “la différence.” Besides, being “well dressed” at Duke is a relative term anyways.
Molly Lester is a Trinity junior. Her column runs every other Friday.
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