Mes amies, I am BACK! Fine, I’ve physically been back in LA for a while now, but mentally and emotionally I’m only just returning from my vacances. Blame it on the heat, these sultry days melting my last remaining brain cells and zapping them of the ability to be timely and relevant. I almost threw in the towel on this recap but:
And what a trip it was! Two weeks zipping around France with a soft landing on the East Coast. I admit I am very French-pilled. You might be familiar with the concept of your “vacation self,” the fun, carefree alter ego that emerges at the first brush of ocean-air/frozen cocktail/snow crunch, but I think there’s a layer beyond that. I think everyone has a city that unlocks something raw and much deeper within them and for me that city is Paris, gorgeous, romantic and slow-paced Paris. Yes, it’s very beautiful, but I also find it to be a deeply, deeply sexy city. Being there always makes me strut like I’m having a delicious little love affair. And speaking of walking - some of you may be yappers but I am a flâneuse at heart. A city where I can disassociate and wander around on foot (aka run away from my problems) for hours is the city for moi.
I landed in Paris bright and early on a Sunday morning, the adrenaline shot of the Seine coming into view shaking off any lingering jet lag. Big thanks to the lovely staff at Hotel Bourg Tibourg who not only welcomed my wide-eyed mania but kindly indulged my attempts to parler francais. Divesting of my bags, I met up with my friend Whitney, who just so happened to be wrapping her travels in Paris that weekend. Whitney was in high spirits (Paris!) despite having been pick-pocketed (merde!) the night before. Nothing a few pastries and apero sproutes (not a typo but a real drink evidemment) couldn’t fix. Jessie, my travel companion for the next two weeks, came bursting in around our second round, officially kicking the trip into high gear.
A few sprouz (spri?) meant it was time to shop. Can confirm that everything is 30% cuter in a sprou haze, with a Paris lens on top. I scored a pair of darling jacquard kitten heels, tiger earrings and a metallic purple tankini with rhinestone appliqué I’ll be wearing as a crop top.
We headed back to the charming Bourg Tibourg (interior: very Costes-lite) and glammed up for our evening with two of Jessie’s family friends in from the UK. A trip to the Hemingway Bar called for the vintage Moschino miniskirt suit my friend Christina insisted I borrow. You know what’s an excellent way to ignore lingering travel fatigue? Taking a sparkler-lit shot to the face, which we did at dinner in the 8th. Not even ten hours on the ground but when in France! Fueled by cucumber tinis, we weren’t quite ready to call it a night, so I took Jessie to my old haunt La Perle. On the ride over, we called Clemmie, a fellow Californian who’d decamped to Paris a few months prior. I didn’t have high hopes that late on a Sunday but she came through and even talked us into a post-nightcap nightcap in Montmartre, before it became clear that even the French go to sleep eventually. Jessie and I thankfully got our derrières home where I translated an 80’s soap for us before we both passed out.
Waking up in Paris on a Monday is still waking up in Paris, even if it’s with a brutal martini hangover and two large bags to maneuver down to the lobby.
A note on these bags: I pride myself on being an expert packer, happy to travel light and get creative, but with two weeks in France + a week in New York, I thought to myself, what do you have to prove? Take the big bag! SHOP! And clearly Jessie thought the same. So imagine two women and two massive suitcases crammed into the tiniest hotel rooms imaginable. (I also had the indignity of discovering my bag had a broken wheel the minute I was wheeling it out of my house, which was unfortunately, the exact point of no return).
We thanked the baggage gods that our hotel had a lift, left our bags in the lobby and somehow managed to pick the one cafe where every trash truck seemed to have converged while we had our coffee (can confirm truck horns are not more charming in Europe).
Then it was off to Gare de Lyon.
We made it with little fanfare (apart from a slightly hairy moment when Jessie, attempting to open a window, almost rolled out onto Rue Des Archives). As soon as the driver left, we realized that not a single lift nor elevator was operational. We would have to lug these bags up three flights of the most intimidating-looking concrete steps. Wheeling this monster was one thing, but carrying it up an incline, sisyphean. Somewhere along the way, a woman carrying a newborn abandoned her stroller and got behind me and I thought, this is it, headlines tomorrow will read Three Dead at Train Station.
Perhaps it was the pilates finally paying off but we made it to the top. It was time to go nonverbal. Jessie watched a video of her friends boarding the Orient Express which looked a little different from our experience. I ate a dry saucisson sandwich out of my handbag (glamour quotient low, we were in pure survival mode). Our train delayed, then delayed again and then, finally, it was time. We boarded, the final hurdle being that I’d somehow booked us on the second floor.
Staircase count: 4, P&J: 0
We pulled into Marseille around 4 pm where Allie (looking entirely too fresh post an 18+ hour travel day) greeted us on the platform. After some requisite American girl wooing, we stepped out, swooning at the breathtaking view. Now to make it, (damn) bags in tow, to Goudes. Thank goodness for our Uber driver who somehow reconfigured his baby stroller and Tetris-ed our luggage into his tiny car, before carting us off 30 min south of the city. With the windows open and sea salt saturating the air (bags rattling around for effect, ofc) we really felt like we were on holiday.
Tuba is heaven. A former diving school converted into a very intimate-but-impeccably decorated hotel, you feel like you’re a guest at someone’s gorgeous cliffside home. Having no intel on the vibes at Goudes, we were a little shocked to see how wild the waves were, watching as a sailboat almost capsized in the cove. Hmmm, I thought, probably not getting in there. I’m an ok swimmer at best but the possibility of turning into a sea sacrifice seemed alarmingly high. So! We posted up on the upper deck. I could feel every wrinkle in my brain ironing itself out as a Campari spritz (the superior spritz) magically appeared in front of me (I ordered it). Allie’s boyfriend Hud would be joining us post Glastonbury but we were unsure what time (and in what state) he’d arrive, so we sat and passed the next seven hours catching up, feasting on seafood so fresh, it rendered any farm-to-table restaurant I’d previously dined at obsolete.
The next morning, Jessie and I woke up to a sea-soaked window. We watched the Tuba crew pack up the lounge chairs we’d been mentally reserving, as we nibbled on our breakfasts of croissants, figs and cheese in the lounge.
“Le Mistral,” they said knowingly, and we nodded somberly along. The infamous Marseille winds were in full force. Our dreams of laying out dashed, we looked at each other.
“Well I guess, only one thing to do.” Time to spritz!
Stairs: 5
Le Mistral: 1
Us: TBH, kinda vibing! Ocean proximity + seafood has that effect.
Hud, having made it successfully to Marseille, joined us, looking in pretty good shape/spirits for someone who’d just put in work at a music festival. We slid into another incroyable seafood lunch and then with not much else to do, lounged in the common room and let the Campari loosen our tongues. A girls trip can still be a girls trip with a man present, especially if he has good stories!!!
On our third day we bid adieu to Tuba (plenty of excellent hotel merch purchased) and headed back into Marseille proper. Marseille is a VIBE. It is gorgeous, gritty and colorful, and has real soul, and if you get the chance to go to, do! All four of us agreed we could’ve easily extended our trip and the pre-anxiety about leaving nipped at at our heels. Desperate for an ocean dip (and our hotel pool out of commish), we set out to find a beach. Luckily, we got a tip of where to post up while picking up sandwiches at Cécile Food Club.
We spent the rest of our afternoon here, tucking into halloumi sandwiches and diving into the blindingly blue water. People swung by on their bikes on what seemed to be their lunch breaks for a quick swim and ciggie. What a life! The water was Wim Hof levels of cold (there’s that pesky mistral again) but in a bracing way that actually felt quite nice (at least the second time for me - the first, my teeth were chattering so much I almost bit my tongue off). Invigorated by our swim, we threw on our holiday best - bright linens that ensured everyone knew we were tourists - and headed to Coquille, for seafood towers, ice cold champagne and to gush about our new crush, Marseille.
The next day, we explored the port and ducked into MUCEM. The building itself is a marvel, with sweeping 360 views. Jessie and I retired to the hotel spa for afternoon massages (P&J: 1, bag-lugging undone) and a lazy sun-soaked nap on our deck. That evening (in decidedly more subtle outfits), we grabbed a natty wine aperitif at Sarment before swapping seafood for mezze platters at Matza. Hud, who’d been a champ post-Glasto, finally seemed to be a hitting a wall, so we sent him packing and had a proper girls night. After a misstep at a Joker themed bar, we course corrected by meeting up with Leo, a friend from Tuba, who took us dancing at Vice Versa. We ended the night by teaching our taxi driver the words to 365 as he circled the block (brat summer, I don’t make the rules!)
We woke up the next morning, gutted to say bye to what had quickly become a favorite city. But Provence beckoned! After a dicey Turo-exchange, Allie and Hud swooped us (+ bags) for a quick nip into Jogging and Maison Empereur (I needed at least five more hours but was able to pick up some gorgeous soaps). Then we were off, cruising through the French countryside. We pitstopped in Arles to visit LUMA, which up until this point I’d only previously known as home to Mme Jeanne Calment, who lived to be 122.
Unbeknownst to us, Avignon, which we’d be passing through, was hosting its annual theatre fest, so traffic was dreadful. An opportune time for Hud to teach us the art of turning an old Perrier bottle into a red wine solo cup, which helped make the rest of the journey more palatable. We discussed the French election and listened to 80s pop until pulling into Sauveterre in the early evening. The sheer beauty of Chateau de Varenne rendered us nonverbal yet again.
We were greeted at the door by the handsome Woody, who despite our excitement seemed to be in low spirits. Emma, the chateau’s proprietor, explained he’d just recovered from a health scare. Jessie and I clocked several stairs but thank goodness we had Hud with us now! (Stair count: 8). The tour culminated in the Presidential Suite, which she’d upgraded Allie and Hud to, overlooking the gardens. Sauveterre is a tiny town with two restaurants and one bell tower that chimes on the hour so we strolled down to Pendino for pizza and wine and because we love to muse, threw out our best conspiracy theories on Woody’s health scare. Chateau mystery!
You might’ve guessed by the upgrade that Hud was planning on proposing. Jessie and I, in on the surprise, woke up the morning of like two giddy children. After breakfast in the garden (and having conveniently forgotten about the traffic endured the day before), we decided to venture out to a nearby town to hit the famous antique market. I fell in love with a beautiful oyster plate that I regret not buying, but did purchase a guillotine-style cheese cutter that will be festive at my next dinner party. On the way back to the car, we poked our heads into Nous where we were greeted by the fabulous owner, who in her magenta caftan and pink rhinestone cowboy boots, looked like she’d wandered off the Barbie set (or at the very least, St. Tropez). Her staff was composed exclusively of teenage boys who called her “mama” and we could’ve spent the whole afternoon getting her backstory, but an engagement awaited!
Back at the chateau, we had a final clandestine meeting with Hud to set the plan into motion (convening outside their balcony just after five). Jessie and I stumbled around the chateau, haunting it like two rosé ghosts, before the bell tower let us know it was time to jump out and and toast the newly-engaged (she said oui, bien sûr). Dinner in Avignon that night included lots of happy tears and raucous laughter. Gimme romance anywhere, but romance in France really hits different! We were slightly less animated the next day, floating in the chateau pool and helping the happy couple work through the many celebratory bottles of champagne they received (we are nothing if not good friends).
It’s sad to leave your friends after such a special time together (an engagement and hours spent in a tiny car in the French countryside will do wonders for your friendship) but a noonish train meant our Provence time was finite. The lovebirds dropped us off at the Avignon train station and after lots of hugs, Jessie and I lugged our small children bags up one final escalator (no stairs, mercifully). Biggest merci to Hud for driving us three around while we shrieked and cackled. We pulled into Paris around 2 pm and were greeted by our driver holding a sign for “Messie Lack,” which was endearing and truer than he could’ve known. Another Monday in the Marais but we’d mercifully missed the garbage trucks. Jessie and I decompressed with afternoon tinis before heading out to shop, where I fell in love with a gorgeous suede duster that I had to abandon because I simply couldn’t fathom how it’d fit in my luggage. Our hotel was around the corner from Clown Bar, so we dolled up for each other and spent the evening people watching on the patio before giving in to our exhaustion and calling it early-ish.
With our duo growing to a foursome the next day (our friends Ryan - whose birthday we’d be celebrating later that week - and Brett arriving from Italy) Jessie and I struck a deal - I’d drag her to a museum in the morning for the remainder of our trip. I love a museum visit when I’m feeling a little rough. It’s a quiet activity that both soothes and nourishes my brain. We walked down to the Fondation Alaia, housed in his old hotel particulier in the Marais. It’s one of the many things that’s always charmed me about the neighborhood, how you could walk past a massive stone wall that would suddenly give way to a beautiful courtyard (maybe that’s why I gravitated to Venice Beach, where Robert Graham’s garden hid behind the most imposing metal sheet for years). The entire building is worth a visit but getting to see Alaia’s studio, totally untouched since his death, was very moving. Even through the glass, you get the sense of a life beautifully and well-lived.
I then took Jessie to my other favorite French cultural pitstop - le metro. Kuala Lumpur has a fantastic and efficient public transportation network (Asia is far ahead of the rest of the world in that respect), Texas and California do not. I find the metro both a marvel and very charming, the perfect addendum to all the walking. We met up with our vacation husbands, having recovered from their travel day from hell, at Dinand and caught up over lethal passionfruit drinks and cheeseburgers (I’m not above craving a burger while away from home and Dinand’s is fabulous). Jessie and I got caught in a downpour on the way home but even that couldn’t dampen our spirits as we rushed to what awaited us at our hotel: our hammam. An hour flopping in the pink-tiled room was exactly what these two Pisces needed: we emerged wrung out and renewed. Suddenly the micro short jumpsuit I’d packed for the evening didn’t feel so intimidating. Unfortunately in our pursuits to revive our spirits, our hair had become disasters, so we asked the concierge for a salon rec.
You want a cultural experience? Get a blowout in Paris. I guarantee you, it’ll blow your hair back. Even with my decent French, the coiffeur simply had ideas of his own. I watched as he vigorously sudsed Jessie’s long hair and then flattened it into submission, nary a conditioner or product in sight. Monsieur and I had a slightly more aggressive one-on-one (I insisted on leave-in) but it got the job done. Coiffed and a little delirious from the head strain, we got dressed and met the boys at Cloche for dinner. We ended the night hanging from the rafters at Septime a Plume, where the sole slipped clean off my heel, indicating it was time to call it.
In keeping with our pact, Jessie and I spent our morning at the Fondation Louis Vuitton. Our brains massaged, we met our now eight-party crew on the left bank for a celebratory birthday lunch at Ralph’s. Fueled by zucchini chips, I wandered into BHV after to check out the soldes and picked up some lingerie. We continued Ryan’s birthday celebrations at dinner that spilled over into a late night at Costes.
I woke up a little melancholic on our last day. A fried chicken Caesar (and sauce caddy) seemed crucial so lunch at Cafe Charlot it was. En route, I dropped a postcard of Naomi Campbell in ballet-core in the mail for a friend’s daughter because no one is too young for Alaia. After our meal, I excused myself and headed off for a solo Marais stroll. I’d completely forgotten where my apartment was but a quick text to my friend Daniel was fruitful and I sauntered over to Rue Pecquay. The street was as small as I remembered and the door still the same bright indigo blue. I wondered if the hush-hush sex club down the street survived the pandemic. I popped into L’Officine Buly for gifts and then took myself to the Picasso Museum like I used to on restless days when I lived there. I love museums in France. They feel wholly less fussy than American ones, where docents seem to be equal parts bored or overly hovering.
That night, Katie (my former Paris partner-in-crime) and her husband arrived, and our now 10-strong crew headed to Thomieux. Thomieux is the sort of place you climb up onto the banquettes after your steak frites have been cleared away, which felt like the right way to go out. We befriended three Frenchmen who insisted we go to a second location with them and we are nothing if not polite, which is how we ended the night at Fouquet’s. Covered floor-to-ceiling in ornate floral wallpaper, we promptly christened it Grandma’s Boiler Room. I mentioned I was on an AMF tour (my crusade to drink as many Adios Motherf*ckers as possible this summer), to one of my travel mates Steve, who kindly offered to buy a round. He returned, however, with Long Island Ice Teas, a well-intentioned faux pas. I may be a creature of chaos but even I knew this was a bad idea at 3 am. Jessie and I snuck out arm-in-arm shortly after and put on Crossroads when we got home (which instantly felt too stressful so we switched to the The Holiday). We made it to Mr Napkinhead before I closed my eyes and pretended to sleep for the next four hours.
Not long after, I found myself pouting at CDG, having reassured Peter that I was indeed getting on the flight. The very first time I left Paris, I cried the whole way home (I’d come straight from a night out and must’ve looked a sight, tear-soaked in a silk black jumpsuit). I always get a little broody leaving because I like imagining what my life would’ve been like had I stayed, when in reality I was twenty with an undeveloped frontal lobe and a fantasy. But still, never say never! To more Paris (hopefully a pied-a-terre) in my future .
I landed in JFK around 1 pm, depressed by the sheer volume of Dunkin Donuts styrofoam, but very excited to see my husband. We were heading to Connecticut to celebrate the matriarch of the Nussbaum family, Doris. Peter’s grandma is a pistol, perhaps even more so at 95, having raised five children, fourteen grandchildren and four great-grandchildren. I personally never need an excuse to celebrate a glamorous woman of a certain age, so I was excited for the festivities.
We closed out the weekend driving to Westport to spend a few nights with Peter’s uncle Tom and aunt Joan, and his cousins Will (who happens to be a dear friend and our wedding officiant) and Casey. Tom and Joan’s home is utterly sublime, an American chateau of sorts, and the perfect place to chase away your Sunday scaries. We recouped over the next few days with cozy meals on their veranda, lazy evenings at the beach and late night conversations in their kitchen.
Then it was off the city! After a leisurely am coffee, we took the train into Grand Central and made it to the West Village around lunchtime. We pulled up to my cousin’s place, a dreamy red brick walk up, and because we’re related, Varin nipped out with us to a cheeky Dante lunch (I had a lunch spritz count to keep up). Varin, and his fiancé Micaela, are parents to Munch, a 180-lb German Shepherd rescued from Texas who is a local celebrity, greeting everyone from his stoop. That evening, Peter and I headed out to Brooklyn to catch up with some friends. Still on a metro-honeymoon, I agreed to hop on the M train, which promptly broke down. After some swaying back and forth for 45 minutes, we emerged and decided it’d be best if we walked across the Brooklyn Bridge, an idea that sounded great in theory, a little less elegant in execution (my slip dress hovered around my waist the entire time, sorry to anyone I may have flashed). We blew off steam with an ice cold martini at Peter Lugers and late night karaoke at TV Eye in Ridgewood, under the watchful eye of a nude Iggy Pop oil painting.
One 4 am-er in the books, we dusted ourselves off (a wise woman once said to me “you can’t get jetlagged if you don’t sleep”) and crossed town for a much needed salt-heavy breakfast at Russ & Daughters. Will & Brielle, who’d just moved back east from LA, joined us for the day, which began with a lox platter, took us onto the ferry and ended with an early al fresco meal at Supper. 10/10 day. On the walk home, it began to drizzle, which felt whimsical and romantic at first, but then it began to really pour. In keeping with being great house guests, we arrived home drenched.
Friday morning, we headed upstate, which felt very novel and exciting for two upstate virgins. Luckily we were in the hands of our friends Latane and Marie, who’d organized our stay in Glen Falls. There’d be waterfall dips, sauna sessions and more lunch wine but the main attraction was seeing Chaparelle in Woodstock. We started the evening at Good Night before heading to Levon Helm Studios for the show. Every now and then, you get to witness a performance that is as truly one-of-a-kind as this was - intimate, transcendent and crackling with chemistry.
As all good trips upstate should end (feeling like an expert now), we stopped at Phoenicia Diner. I had a grilled cheese and tomato soup that felt like a hug. That night, we checked into the Ludlow (all the dim lighting was very welcome) and strolled over to see our dear friend (and my former roommate) Thomas. I snuggled his dog, Abigail, while Tommy cooked us a gorgeous meal and we reminisced fondly about our Weho days. A perfect way to wrap it up.
Towards the end of my trip, I kept (semi) joking that I was going to extend my stay to which Peter retorted, “every vacation has to come to an end.” I suppose that’s true but I’m still basking in the afterglow. This holiday was one that’ll keep me sated through the rest of summer, quite possibly through the year’s end (don’t worry, I will shut up about it on here). I got to see one of my best friends get engaged, celebrated another’s milestone birthday. I feel so much closer to everyone I saw and traveled with (any anxieties I had about sharing a room for two weeks were unfounded - Jessie, I’m ready to plan our next trip when you are!!). Besides, life in LA isn’t too shabby. A week after getting back, I found myself on a deck off PCH. The view was spectacular, the weather sublime, the mood festive (we were at an engagement party). The theme? Permanent Vacation. That’s a state of mind I can get behind.
TRIP HIGHLIGHTS:
SURPRISE DISCOVERY The “Naturist Paradises” exhibit at MUCEM, covering the history of naturist (nudist) colonies of the 1920s in France and Switzerland. I tend to forget how prudish Americans can be about bodies so this was refreshing and fun.
TBT Hearing “I Want Your Soul” by Armand Van Helden at the club - Ghettoblaster is strictly bangers, top to bottom.
“AM I DEAD OR AM I DREAMING” MOMENT the massage I got in the garden of Chateau de Varenne with birds chirping around me, very Disney Princess.
BITE OF FOOD Not one bad meal but every bit of seafood we ate in Marseille, both at Tuba and in town (washed down with copious amount of orange wine) was spectacular.
PHARMACY HAUL Wish I had one! It was really just Jessie and I passing pharmacies daily, until we finally flailed and panic shopped on the last day. I remain charmed by Marvin calling their whitening toothpaste “Smoker’s White.”
PURCHASE(S)- The aforementioned Kenzo heels. A mint-condition snug camel crochet sweater that’ll perfect over a bikini or slip dress. I’m also partial to the lucite combs I picked up for Peter and Varin at L’Officine Bully and had engraved with their initials (the Texan in me lives for a monogram).
LUNCH BEV - The post-hot yoga frozen sangria from L’Industrie in the West Village changed my life.
FILED UNDER : MORE SEXY EUROPEANS
Who’s it doing it like DVF? If you haven’t seen her doc on Hulu, what’re you waiting for! It’s the most fun you’ll have from the comfort of your living room. Diane (pronounced Dee-ahnnnn) is an icon no doubt, but the documentary unfurls layers that made my spin head. Regularly arranging street style photoshoots with her dreamy bi prince husband? Sleeping with Warren Beatty and Ryan O’Neal in the same weekend? Turning down a threesome with Bowie and Mick Jagger? Pardon Mme. Furstenberg, I simply was not familiar with your game.
In addition to both being precocious only children, I feel a deep kinship to her choice of athleisure (chaotic print mixing, leopard pants). I’m still thinking about her preferred way of applying makeup, which involves climbing feet first into her sink and coming face-to-face with her own reflection. Wacky and singular, I have no choice but to stan.
READY FOR THE RUUUUHMERS
Forget the Olympics. Nothing says bienvenue back to the USA like a new season of SLC. I have yet to dip my toe into Bravo’s offerings outside of the housewives franchise so these Utah girlies are the only ones who could get me even mildly excited for temps to drop.
AOOOGAH
A face card with unlimited credit. Lip filler is so ubiquitous in LA, but Jolie’s pout remains the gold standard. The first time I saw Tomb Raider, I couldn’t believe someone so HOT existed (the movie still rules, don’t sleep on that soundtrack either). To me, Jolie is a proper bad girl, someone who’s lived each decade of her life to the fullest - a wild child ingenue in her 20s, a bonafide movie star and Mother in hers 30s, and a humanitarian and filmmaker in her 40s. Real bad girls never die, they only get badder.
WEEKEND BOP ALERT 🚨
TWENTY EIGHT YEARS since “Virtual Insanity” came out!!!! I don’t like those numbers but I do love “Cosmic Girl”, track two on the album (Travelling Without Moving) as much now as I did the first time I heard it.
Et voila! I’m writing this after attending a Q&A for my short W.I.L.S.D.M, and today will be heading to this downtown to see this superstar in action (I’ll also hopefully be reading more of Rewire, a book I packed on my trip and didn’t crack once). Summer weekends are finite, go enjoy yours <3
not including link to 2008 sketcher shape-ups after paragraph 2 is a missed opp