samedi, mars 17
posted by Gina at 13:22


I'm in the snack car of the Eurostar train shooting back to Paris. We were among many who made the trip from Paris to London this weekend, though unlike the rest, we'd just gone for a little weekend fun, and not for the England/France rugby match. We're waiting to buy our overpriced train food surrounded by a group of drunken French rugby fans, whose only English acquired over the weekend seems to be "blowjob". Judging by their charm, I'm guessing their team isn't the only one who didn't score this weekend. Luckily, our time in London was spent without their presence.
Most of my weekend was spent sandwiched between Zaza and Jean-Jean in a cab facing my husband. From the first pickup at Waterloo, the French trio fell in love with London taxis and somehow reasoned it always made more economic and logistical sense to take a taxi rather than buses or the tube. And for the times when there was no economic sense to a £10 cab ride, it just boiled down to "Mais ils sont trop chouette, les taxis de Londres!"
The French expression most used with London translates to "it costs the skin off your ass." And how. We went with a decent hotel, myself remembering the last time I tried to get a deal in Londonian lodging. It was only £10 a night and involved sharing a room with a grouchy aborigine woman who cooked chicken next to her bed. History was not to repeat itself.
Our first pint was in a crowded pub where the only nearly available table for four was occupied by a passed out man, who'd either come alone or was abandonded by his pals. Zaza and I weren't ready to squeeze in next to him, so we stood at the bar, where Husband and Jean-Jean gleefully discovered that smoking is still legal in London pubs. I thought it had already been banned, but it seems they've got until July to light up and share the love.
Now, a word on style. Coming out of the black and grey everyone always wears in Paris winters, landing in London is like stepping into Oz. An Oz where the locals are walking around in blue leggings matched with silver tops or red and gold shoes paired up with black and white print dresses. In the words of De La Soul "You get an E for effort and a T for nice try."
How is it that the city that produced the likes of Bella Freud and Plum Sykes could also be home to so many girls that seem to combine outfit assembly with the overconsumption of alcohol? Leicester Square on a Saturday night has London girls bar hopping in lycra minidresses and plexi glass heels. Or shirt dresses (that might actually just be shirts) and pumps. Coats would have covered too much, although it was ridiculously cold outside and we were shivering in our coats and scarves.
The irony is that there's excellent clothes to be found here. Not to mention the vintage shops. Treated ourselves to eye candy at Karen Millen. Her boutique inside Galeries Lafayette is delicious enough but her store in Covent Garden had a whole other equally enjoyable collection.
Reasons to go back: we didn't get a chance to stop by Liberty or meet my former roomate/favorite Englishman for a drink. Eurostar is advertising roundtrip tickets right at 66€ a pop, so maybe it will be sooner rather than later.
 
2 Comments:


At 3/20/2007 2:59 PM, Blogger Jenne

ohmygosh, i used to MARVEL at those kinds of outfits. especially when it's freezing out and you'll see a girl clad in bright red fishnet leggings, a torn t-shirt wrapped in yards of metallic, studded belts, ginormous hoops and Barbie-esque stilettos that look molded from bright blue plastic. i still think madrid and barcelona win for craziest saturday night clothing concoctions, though. i would spend hours pondering questions like, "do they own shoes in EVERY colour of the rainbow? is that a skirt or a large belt? how do they not fall over on the cobblestones?"