I woke up and the sun was shining through my (teeny) living room window. I did the dishes, washed some laundry, had my coffee and put on my yoga clothes. With 25 minutes to spare, I hopped on a Vélib and made it to class on time.
After and hour and a half of zen (and realization that my hamstrings are tiiiiight!), I changed out of my stretch pants and into a pair of jean shorts, a tank top and my flip flops, hair twisted and pinned up to keep me cool in the August heat.
This probably sounds so not a big deal, but I NEVER wear shorts here. It's almost inappropriate - unless you wear them with tights. Too much skin for the Frenchies...especially in the northern cities. It's just not done. Or it's done and you are clearly the odd (wo)man out, clearly the étrangère (foreigner).
But here's the thing - all of the Frenchies are gone. Paris is tourist-ville a-gogo and shorts, tank tops and too much skin are running around all over the place (with cameras and gigantic maps)! I fit right in!
One thing was missing though, and I quickly remedied that by buying a grande iced coffee at the Starbucks by the Centre Pompidou. Ahhh, California day....
Instead of sitting down to drink it like a good Frenchie should, I walked around town, window shopping (and actual shopping at Hema!), had lunch on a terrace and soaked in the sun.
