Postcard from France

Gravel crunches beneath my feet: slick, granite pebbles that are modest versions of the tremendous boulders which dot the coastline.  The sea is grey-blue this morning, a color which reminds me of my grandmother's eyes and faded hydrangeas.  A group of aerobic swimmers wearing santa hats gesticulate in the frigid water, and as they move from a line to a circular formation they laugh and wave and bob with the rhythm of the tide.

It is December, which is unusual because I am only ever in the coastal town of Trégastel, France in the summer.  The weather is a touch cooler and the sky darkens earlier, but aside from this I notice only a page turn difference in the seasons.  Christmas lights are strung messily around windows and doors, and advertisements for yule log cakes are posted around our hotel.  Daniel and Sylvie, the proprietors of l'Hôtel Beausejour, are old friends of my mother.  She is the godmother to their children, and was a regular at the hotel bar in the summers of the seventies.  

For breakfast we devour an array of fresh breads baked by Sylvie with local jams and sweet fruits served on traditional Bretagne painted plates.  The coffee is frothy and strong and steams in mugs that look like bowls, and tangy, crisp orange juice squeezed by Sylvie just moments earlier is poured in front of us.  

We spend our day exploring the coast and running errands with my ninety-five year old grandmother who has swollen feet but giggles when merde slips from her lips.  She  cannot put her finger on why she has lived so long, for she was always the sickly one in the family.  My parents and I, though, see an intensity in her that is only lessened by her poor hearing.  She shuffles around her nursing home cracking jokes about the other old people and the undercooked food.  

When we leave Trégastel the day after Christmas my Mami Georgette squeezes us firmly.  It will be six months before we see her again.  

We have an evening in Paris and dine at a local restaurant which has become one of our favorites.  You must step through a heavy red curtain into the intimate place which is illuminated on all sides by dirty mirrors and brass lights.  I drink too much red wine and eat cheap steak-frîtes with thyme that burns on the plate.  After the meal, our taxi driver lets us out on the Champs-Elysées so we can admire Paris's Christmas decor.  The city of lights shines before us, proud and strong and beautiful in the black night.  The stars are in the city, not the sky.

Teen Vogue: A Brief Eulogy

J.O.A. top & me smiling in a field of cows.  

In​ ​middle​ ​school,​ ​fashion​ ​magazines​ ​were​ ​my​ ​escape​ ​from​ ​underdeveloped​ ​breasts, braces,​ ​and​ ​my​ ​parents’​ ​no-makeup-until-high-school​ ​rule.​ ​​ ​​Vogue​ ​​and​ ​​Elle​ ​​were​ ​off-limits, (though​ ​I​ ​often​ ​snuck​ ​a​ ​peek​ ​at​ ​them​ ​in​ ​waiting​ ​rooms​ ​and​ ​convenience​ ​stores)​ ​mostly​ ​because my​ ​mom​ ​was​ ​concerned​ ​that​ ​I​ ​might​ ​encounter​ ​the​ ​occasional​ ​sex-related​ ​article.​ ​​ ​​Teen​ ​Vogue was​ ​our​ ​compromise.

           When​ ​a​ ​new​ ​​Teen​ ​Vogue​ ​​was​ ​slipped​ ​into​ ​our​ ​mailbox​ ​I​ ​would​ ​tear​ ​it​ ​out​ ​and​ ​flip hungrily​ ​to​ ​the​ ​section​ ​of​ ​whimsical​ ​celebrity​ ​shoots​ ​and​ ​imaginative​ ​editorials.​ ​​ ​The​ ​clothes were​ ​too​ ​expensive​ ​for​ ​me​ ​to​ ​ever​ ​dream​ ​of​ ​affording,​ ​but​ ​they​ ​sparked​ ​my​ ​creativity​ ​for​ ​weeks.
           On​ ​road​ ​trips​ ​I​ ​would​ ​listen​ ​to​ ​music​ ​and​ ​imagine​ ​myself​ ​dancing​ ​in​ ​tulle​ ​and​ ​jeweled Miu​ ​Miu​ ​shoes​ ​and​ ​fuzzy​ ​pink​ ​sweaters.​ ​​ ​In​ ​class​ ​I​ ​daydreamed​ ​about​ ​one​ ​day​ ​becoming​ ​like​ ​the bloggers​ ​featured​ ​in​ ​​Teen​ ​Vogue​’s​ ​pages:​ ​full​ ​of​ ​spunk​ ​and​ ​fire​ ​and​ ​living​ ​in​ ​a​ ​world​ ​where Aeropostale​ ​and​ ​Hollister​ ​were​ ​sartorial​ ​curse​ ​words.
           It​ ​was​ ​​Teen​ ​Vogue​ ​​that​ ​introduced​ ​me​ ​to​ ​Jane​ ​Aldridge,​ ​sparked​ ​my​ ​obsession​ ​with denim,​ ​and​ ​taught​ ​me​ ​that​ ​style​ ​could​ ​be​ ​both​ ​an​ ​eloquent​ ​autobiography​ ​and​ ​a​ ​masterful disguise.
           This​ ​morning,​ ​on​ ​the​ ​heels​ ​of​ ​Condé​ ​Nast’s​ ​announcement​ ​to​ ​terminate​ ​print​ ​issues​ ​of​ ​the magazine,​ ​I​ ​am​ ​left​ ​wondering​ ​what​ ​this​ ​means​ ​for​ ​the​ ​future​ ​of​ ​adolescent​ ​fashionistas.
           As​ ​a​ ​middle​ ​schooler,​ ​​Teen​ ​Vogue​ ​​was​ ​my​ ​lifeline​ ​to​ ​the​ ​fashion-happenings​ ​in​ ​New York​ ​and​ ​Paris,​ ​two​ ​cities​ ​that​ ​felt​ ​worlds​ ​away​ ​from​ ​my​ ​hometown​ ​in​ ​Louisiana.​ ​​ ​Today, though,​ ​in​ ​a ​society​ ​forever​ ​intertwined via ​Instagram,​ ​Facebook,​ ​and​ ​Snapchat-​ ​is​ ​it possible​ ​that​ ​we​ ​no​ ​longer​ ​need​ ​magazines​ ​like​ ​​Teen​ ​Vogue​ ​​to​ ​be​ ​a​ ​part​ ​of​ ​the​ ​changing​ ​fabric​ ​of fashion?
          ​ ​Is​ ​the​ ​death​ ​of​ ​print​ ​​Teen​ ​Vogue​ ​​a​ ​precursor​ ​to​ ​what​ ​we​ ​have​ ​always​ ​known,​ ​yet preferred​ ​to​ ​ignore​ ​as​ ​committed​ ​magazine​ ​readers:​ ​that​ ​print​ ​fashion​ ​is​ ​becoming​ ​obsolete?
           Even​ ​as​ ​I​ ​graduated​ ​to​ ​reading​ ​​Vogue,​ ​Teen​ ​Vogue​ ​​still​ ​arrives​ ​in​ ​my​ ​mailbox​ ​every month,​ ​and​ ​I​ ​continue​ ​to​ ​flip​ ​[less​ ​voraciously]​ ​through​ ​its​ ​pages​ ​which,​ ​of​ ​recent,​ ​have​ ​been more​ ​politically​ ​and​ ​activist​ ​oriented.
           It​ ​is​ ​no​ ​longer​ ​the​ ​only​ ​platform​ ​that​ ​relates​ ​me​ ​to​ ​the​ ​fashion-world,​ ​though​ ​I​ ​credit​ ​it with​ ​helping​ ​me​ ​discover​ ​all​ ​of​ ​the​ ​bloggers​ ​that​ ​dot​ ​my​ ​Instagram​ ​feed​ ​and​ ​the​ ​brands​ ​I​ ​cherish most​ ​dearly.
           Now​ ​I​ ​will​ ​toss​ ​a​ ​fistful​ ​of​ ​dirt​ ​onto​ ​a​ ​lowered​ ​​Teen​ ​Vogue​​ ​casket​ ​filled​ ​with​ ​vintage jeweled​ ​shoes​ ​and​ ​denim​ ​jackets​ ​and​ ​the​ ​resumés​ ​of​ ​dozens​ ​of​ ​now-fashion​ ​giants​ ​who​ ​got​ ​their start​ ​at​ ​the​ ​magazine.

              Which​ ​publication​'s ​funeral​ ​will​ ​be​ ​next? 

19 Years & A Postcard from Madrid

“Gracias.”

A Spaniard in a wrinkled linen shirt hands me a homemade blueberry tarta de queso popsicle. It is thick and velvety, unlike the watery, generic versions I buy from the grocery store. Little bits of blueberry get caught in my teeth as I wander aimlessly, family in tow, through the warm streets of Madrid.  When the treat dissolves, I chew on the remaining stick like a character from a Western movie.

It’s a Sunday, and the main street is closed to traffic so locals can take leisurely strolls under the canopy of trees lining the road.  The paved expanse, usually concealed beneath blaring traffic, is now open and serene, almost village-like. Children clutch the hands of their parents, and grandparents push their walkers step-by-step along the pavement.  A young girl on rollerblades soars by, totally at the mercy of a slender, fox-like dog that races ahead of her on its leash.  

As the sky deepens behind the Palacio Real De Madrid, Spanish countryside green and vast in the background, we ease our pace to watch as the sun's departure transforms the city. 
 The nightlife spills like a kaleidoscope out of restaurants and onto the streets, and groups of friends exchange colorful drinks, tapas, and conversation.  Music playing in dark restaurants and clubs becomes muddled in the open, creating a unique soundtrack just for Madrid.  

Today is my birthday, and we have reservations at a cozy restaurant called The Spanish Farm.  I spotted it in passing the day prior, and when we arrive, it is nearly empty.   We are served generous portions of meat with few sides and a cheese board of Spanish favorites.  For dessert, I order a chocolatey sort of pudding that I will make one of my many excuses to return to Madrid.  

The evening is nearing its end, and our waiter, a stocky man named Pedro, brings me a plate with a candle, a scoop of vanilla ice cream, and a chocolate message reading “Happy Birthday.”  The music in the restaurant shifts to a birthday tune, and the kitchen staff of three emerge to clap and sing along.

I am surrounded by the friends and family whom I love most in the world, and both surprised and moved by the crew of burly cooks, who created the bonus dessert without being prompted.  
The lights are dim and the faces are smiling, and as the candle blinks expectantly in front of me, I wish for nothing else.

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