I Was A Lilac Sky

Dear Reader,

On Saturday I was bored and so I made more of these. I think its becoming an addiction. But oh what a lovely addiction it is.

Capture d’écran 2014-10-18 à 19.44.30

I took this in Paris


and I took this in New York


and I took this in California wishing I was either in Paris or in New York.

Capture d’écran 2014-10-19 à 13.04.04

I miss them so much.




Have I mentioned how much I miss France?


It’s alright.


(But I am trying)


I always associate people with the color blue for some reason.


I have this quote on the wall above my bed; isn’t it a nice idea?


It’s getting so much better.


You liked me cause I was blue.

XX, The Girl in the Little Black Dress

P.S. Comment your favorite one <3

Disclaimer: All background photos are mine but the layered images were all found on Tumblr and I take no credit. If one of the photos is yours and you want credit or for me to take it down please email me (natalieslovelyblog1@gmail.com).

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We Looked Like Giants

Dear Reader,

Here’s an essay I wrote about my year in France for English. I read it aloud in class on Thursday. I don’t know if anyone understood it.

I spent 9 months in a city 356 kilometers west of Paris where the last metro creaks into the station at 3:04 am and where it rains more often than not. 273 days in a city in France where two rivers run through the graffitied part of town, where a famous cathedral kisses the sky three streets behind the opera house, where the clouds glow dark purple when they don’t smolder grey. I know a city named Rennes, and I called it home for 9 months. Anyone can research this little white city and find that it’s area spans 50.39 square kilometers or that 208,033 people wander it’s curled streets or that the Parliament building burned down in 1994. They might find that the art museum closes early on Wednesdays, that the Kennedy metro-line runs right under the government offices, or that the streetlamps flicker on at 4pm in December and at 9pm in May.

But these facts don’t define Rennes, not really. No guide book or folded map can explain the important things. Neither will tell you that the Line 5 bus turns the corner 2 minutes late on Tuesday mornings because the driver’s girlfriend comes along to babble on about unironed blouses and dinner parties or that the best place to go if you want to be alone is the dandelion field behind the park or that the post-officers only deliver mail on bikes or that the man selling clipped tulips on the corner of Guehenno and Alleé Sainte Marie asked me every morning if I had enough reasons to smile.

After May 28th, the day I flew back into New York City, the past year began to swirl into a blur of snagged tights, spinning night skies and broken umbrellas. Details faded from my memory, decayed at a rapid pace, and I feared that without them, I would stop caring about what it was like to be 17 in France as soon as I turned 18 in California. So I wrote. Back in California, I continued to fill the 300-page black notebook I had begun in France. I wrote to remember.

Words on paper appeared tangible; they made it easier for me to believe the things in my head existed. So I scribbled dates:  November 11 (“Natalie, walk me to the bus stop”), February 8 (Phoenix concert), May 29 (Cathedral Parkway, 110th Street). I jotted down names: Greg, the boy who played Hotel California for me on his guitar when I told him I missed home, Ruth, the girl who lived in the kaleidoscopic apartment downtown, Sophie, the girl who told me about all the times she stole chapstick from CVS. I scrawled times: 1:17 pm (“don’t say it”), 2:32 am (“I’m sorry”), 11:11 pm (I don’t want Olivia to die tonight). My writing in that black notebook was hardly like anything I’d written before. Curling handwriting in blotchy black ink traversed the unruled paper, tangled charts with names and dates coated the pages, and the occasional 7-page-rant varied my unorganized web of ideas. I scribbled comma splice after comma splice to remember soot-covered chimneys, to remember girls lounged under dripping oak trees with daisy chains tangled in their hair, to remember boys who flung elastic bodies through empty streets at 2:32 am.

I had always been okay at English. I turned in the Joyce, Twain and Orwell papers on time, and I (almost) always put commas before coordinating conjunctions. I wrote because I had to; someone had given me a prompt, a book and a due date. So what compelled me to fill that notebook’s empty pages? Stephen King once said, “A little talent is a good thing to have if you want to be a writer. But the only real requirement is the ability to remember every scar.” Before I went to France, I had the “talent” King was referring to (or at least the ability to follow grammatical rules and back up a point with evidence and clarity), but I didn’t have the “scars,” triumphs, connections, experiences, realizations, heartbreaks or whatever else you’d like to call them. In France, I acquired these so-called “scars,” and I filled a black book in an attempt to remember the night Sydney and I sat on Greg’s skateboard, the familiarity of rain trickling down my window pane, the afternoon I had to explain to the drunk man on the bus that I was not, in fact, his ex-wife. Stuff like that.

I wrote about September 5th, the day I got my first “scar” catching my flight from Boston to Paris. I recalled waving goodbye to my tissue-dabbing parents from the security line and standing next to a girl named Kate whose clear, blue eyes resembled one of my California friend’s, the kind where if you look from the side you can see right through. A jumble of sweaty palms and hollow words, I distracted myself by worrying about taking my shoes off in security to reveal my polka-dot socks. Kate didn’t seem like the kind of girl to wear polka-dot socks. She was going on the challenges about packing because she owned so many pairs of boots. I overthought having only packed one pair of boots. That day, I learned to let go of the big worries.

I wrote about September 28th, 2013, my 17th birthday. I recalled the night the five of us started at the ceiling of a balmy, beige hotel room: Sydney, the nail-biting girl with glasses I befriended behind the iron gate at school, Olivia, the girl I sat next to in English class, and Tayma and Lindsey from room 208.  Syd cracked the window, and we heard our classmates’ fleeting giggles outside on the beach. We could discern the sand flying up behind their heels, their batting hearts slurred into one collaborative throbbing.  Olivia interrupted the hush. “So, why are we here and not out there, then?” In the quiet that followed, I saw the day’s events spiral through my head. Olivia whispering to me about the day she told her mom she was bisexual – it was New Year’s and they were eating Chinese food. Tayma’s furrowed brow in the modern art museum where we saw a statue she perceived as sexist. Lindsey’s shudder at the mention of love. Sydney’s eyes all lit up on the bus when I put one of her headphones in and listened to the song that reminded her of home. In that moment, I realized I could learn more from talking to these four than from a game of flashlight tag. I also realized I had an answer for Olivia. I said, “We aren’t out there, because we should talk.” And so we did. We talked until the night slipped away, and it wasn’t my birthday anymore. Nine months later, I wrote about the day I got the rare, good kind of scar that comes with confiding in four strangers that would soon become my best friends.

I wrote about March 5th, the day I added another scar to my growing collection. I found myself alone in Paris with only 20 minutes to catch a train to the south of France. I loathed clocks then, watched the seconds they shattered, stumbled from Metro A and then to E through tears of despair and shoved past ladies in mustard pea coats and gentlemen underneath top hats with tangled luggage dragging behind the sullied fabric of my skirt. With mascara streaming down my cheeks, I asked around for tissues, jumped turnstiles like hurdles, scrawled phone numbers with lipstick, paused only to scowl at the time on my 2:37 P.M. ticket, longed for a miracle that would keep the ticket-collector from ticket-collecting, and missed my train. No miracle. I wrote about standing in the middle of the Paris Austerlitz Gare, a 17-year old-girl, gasping for breath in the city of lights with an invalid ticket and no place to spend the night. I wrote about feeling alone in a foreign country then, but its funny because in California six months later, I realized that I’ve never felt more like a misplaced foreigner.

After France, memories came back to me in quick, sharp bursts. The thing about nostalgia is you can lock it up as secure and firm and concrete and sturdy and impermeable as you conceivably can, and out it slips in a heartbeat, released by a stranger’s soft lips, an apartment’s peeling paint, the sliver of yellow in the hallway, the murmur “want to know a secret,” a familiar song sliding through the radio speakers on a Monday night, the crackle of my television’s dizzy flickering static, the ashes of some boy’s cigarette glowing in the night fluttering onto the boulevard where he kicks dust off his shoes.

The last time I wrote in my black notebook, I should have been sleeping. At 1:13 a.m. on June 27, 2014, I scribbled:

“I know I will be okay, that one day I will look back and read these dumb explanations and trite letters, and I will have forgotten what Wednesday nights were like in December and what it felt like to be 17. I will have forgotten the sheets of rain that pooled in between my collar bones all the days my umbrella snapped, Madison Avenue, Backstage and listening to 505 for hours in a bed that was too white. I will stop wondering about the man who used his coat sleeve to wipe the bus window so I could see outside and I will stop mailing letters to Sydney and Greg and Lindsey and Olivia and Mike and Abby. I will forget because I cannot remember everything, and one day somebody will stop returning my phone calls, and France will fade away in a red haze.

I imagine that when I am 30, I will wear 2 inch heels and have an arrogant boss who smokes and that some day I will pull this little black notebook out from the back of my closet and I will read it and everything will seem childish and small. I guess that is what makes me so sad. Because these things happened and they made me blush and cry and smile. Right now, I don’t understand why nobody takes the bus in California, why Syd lives 2,782 miles away, why I don’t have a little brother to give girl advice to anymore.

There was a big wooden house that I called home, and I remember that when it rained, the windows got blurry, and I had to call the boy next door because I couldn’t see him from out my bedroom glass. There was a girl with golden hair and rose lips, and she held me when I felt as cracked and grey as the cement we spent midnights sprawled across. There was an ashy, glitzy street where we all went to fall in and out of folded love.

I hope I am wrong, and that I won’t actually forget the careless boys or the golden cities or the white houses, but just in case I do, and 30-year-old me doesn’t remember what it was like to be 17-year-old me, I need the woman wearing a pencil skirt living in a big city to remember that we were dumb and alive; that we were glowing from the inside out, and that everything was green: the green that is so light its almost white, but its not. Its green.”

Friends, family, and strangers alike often ask me the dreadful, dreadful question “How was France?” and to date, I cannot come up with a response that satisfies both myself and the surely well-intentioned (yet ignorant) questioner. I consider the nine months I spent in Rennes multi-dimensional, impossible to sum up in one sentence or a 300-page black notebook for that matter. I guess I wrote in an attempt to capture France as a whole, but by the 283rd page, I ended up realizing that the little details were what affected me the most. So here’s my answer. France was the taxi ride to the train I spent all night on, the night the four of us almost had to take Olivia to the emergency room, lingering fingers, hazy reflections, and the afternoon I had to mail all my sweaters back home at the downtown post office.

France was finding out that rain wasn’t something that only existed out my two-story window, a brick wall, the redbrick coat room in Mr. Solter’s apartment complex, the café where a stranger with a rose in his mouth walked in, slipped it in Lindsey’s mouth and kissed her, the first message he ever sent me: hey what number are we on the math thing? and the last message I ever sent him: I don’t care. she was my best friend. France was grown-up teenagers that would spit out smoke so the chimneys wouldn’t be the only ones emptying smog, feeling as dark blue as my nail polish, the sliding window across from my creased bed where on clear nights I would climb out onto my little corner of roof to wonder about the dots simmering in apartment buildings, the grinning boy who never did his math homework, murmuring walls, and bobby pins. It was a school exactly the same as back home – hallways buzzing with deafening whispers.

In February, Sophie and I went to Paris for a weekend. We had been warned to expect urbanity – cigarette butts, thick graffiti, curling smog, ugliness. Instead, we found ourselves among blushing people whose hearts tapped us through fur coats as we smashed together on the Metro. On Saturday night we went to a concert, and after, we hailed a cab at 4am with our numb fingers. When we squeezed back into our hotel room, the February sun had begun to poke in between the frosted window panes, but we ate candy for dinner and fell asleep listening to songs about 1901 and breakfast tears, our tangled tights dangling off the blue beds. Sophie and I don’t talk anymore. I think the main reason I filled the notebook with memories, “scars” was because I figured if I wrote about these things right after they happened, time wouldn’t be able to change the way I perceived France and the people I met there. Because I know how these things go. The man selling flowers on the corner will start selling cars or something and he won’t be there anymore to ask people if they feel alright, the drunk man on the bus will stop mistaking 17-year-old girls for his ex-wife, and Sophie might even stop stealing chapstick from CVS.

 XX, The Girl in the Little Black Dress

P.S. Listen to this song: Death Cab for Cutie – We Looked Like Giants

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The People Were Made of Paper

Dear Reader,

I, like my mother, am stuck in the 80’s.









(top: thrifted, shorts: American Apparel, tights: Nordstrom, boots: Steve Madden)

As I was saying, my favorite TV show is (and has been since 8th grade) My So-Called Life, I am a strong believer in the grunge movement, and high waisted shorts are yes. Naturally, I get very excited when autumn rolls around, because crisper air means that I can bring out my tights and combat boots. For this outfit, I paired a floral top I thrifted (could very well be from the 80’s) with my favorite pair of high waisted shorts, scuffed tights, and black boots.

Oh and I made a mood board to go along with my outfit (that highlights my current/for-always love of floral prints, cranberry lip colors, and denim) because I have a mild (bad) addiction to Polyvore. Capture d’écran 2014-10-01 à 22.39.17 In honor of the 80’s, I’m going to end this post with my favorite quotes from My So-Called Life so enjoy.

“Seeing a teacher’s actual lunch is, like, so depressing. Not to mention, her bra strap.”

” It just seems like, you agree to have a certain personality or something. For no reason. Just to make things easier for everyone. But when you think about it, I mean, how do you know it’s even you? And, I mean, this whole thing with yearbook – it’s like, everybody’s in this big hurry to make this book, to supposedly remember what happened. Because if you made a book of what really happened, it’d be a really upsetting book.”

“I bet people can actually die of embarrassment. I bet it’s been medically proven.”

“There’s something about Sunday night that really makes you wanna kill yourself.”

“When I was little I, like, worshipped Halloween. And truthfully, part of me still does. ‘Cause it’s your one chance all year to be someone else.”

“Everybody’s an act. Including you.”

“Things were getting to me. Just how people are. How they always expect you to be a certain way. Even your best friend.”

“My dad thinks every person in the world is having more fun than him. Which could be true.” “I’m in love. His name is Jordan Catalano. He was let back, twice. Once I almost touched his shoulder in the middle of a pop quiz. He’s always closing his eyes like it hurts to look at things.”

“If only there were a button somewhere that I could push to force me to stop talking.”

“Sometimes someone says something really small… and it just fits into this empty place in your heart.”

“Once upon a time there lived a girl. She slept in a lovely little cottage made of gingerbread and candy. She was always asleep. One morning she woke up and the candy had mold on it. Her father blew her a kiss and the house fell down. She realized she was lost. She found herself walking down a crowded street, but the people were made of paper, like paper dolls. She blew everyone a kiss goodbye and watched as they blew away.”

All said/written by Angela Chase of course. Comment your favorite one.

XX, The Girl in the Little Black Dress

P.S. Listen to this song: Young the Giant – Mind Over Matter

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Dear Reader,

Three days ago was my 18th birthday. I guess I’m an adult now. Funny how these things go. Its weird; I remember I used to want to grow up so badly. I would play dress up with sequined tube tops and stumble around in red high heels. I used to think getting older meant I would get to wear mascara and eat ice cream whenever I wanted. I suppose that technically those things are true, but what I didn’t realize when I was 5 or 12 or even 17 is that growing up will break your heart in the slowest way. Its like one day you wake up or look at someone you don’t talk to anymore or throw away your favorite pair of shoes that doesn’t fit you anymore and you realize that you can’t stop your life from going on. Oh my that last bit sounded awful I didn’t mean to sound so old/sad. But in all seriousness, I’m scared. I’m scared that soon I won’t remember the name of the girl who used to tie my shoes in preschool or the songs my mom hummed to me after elementary school or the blue dress I wore on Sundays. I know that someday I’ll buy an apartment with Sydney and we’ll have a view of a brick wall out the kitchen window and I’ll be able to wear high heels without tripping, but I really don’t want to forget all the people I’ve been. I’m afraid that if I don’t remember what it was like to blow out 7 candles, by the time I’m blowing out 19 I won’t care that if you flip a poppy upside-down you can find a queen or that it’s bad to step on cracks in the sidewalk.

XX, The Girl in the Little Black Dress

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Am I A Vampire? Possibly.

Dear Reader,

I’m going to be doing more outfit-type posts because a) I haven’t done them in forever and b) I really enjoy doing them. Basically, this outfit was vaguely inspired by the cover of Contra by Vampire Weekend. See below.

Capture d’écran 2014-09-07 à 20.19.58

(Photo from Polyvore)

I’ve been listening to this album a lot recently. And somehow the girl wearing white against the white background got me thinking I should do the same. So I did. Except instead of a white polo I decided to take a more romantic approach and wear a lace dress. I paired the dress with oxfords and lace socks.


Oh and I would like to apologize for the outlet. I don’t know about you, but it gives me stage 4 OCD.






 Strange smile (?) but you can see the dress close up.


Shoes and socks. Sorry the photo’s a tad blurry.


I realize I am about as white as the wall. Not everyone that lives in California is tan okay. Vampire Weekend. Think about it ;)

XX, The Girl in the Little Black Dress

Dress: Urban Outfitters, Cardigan: Forever 21, Socks: American Apparel, Shoes: Sam Edelman

P.S. Listen to this song: Vampire Weekend – Giving Up The Gun

P.P.S. Comment your favorite VW song if you enjoy them. If not, just your current favorite song. Always always looking for new music.

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100 Things I Learned In France

Dear Reader,

Here are 100 things I learned while living in France.

1.) Black is the best color (or lack thereof).

2.) Expensive perfumes are expensive, yes, but they also give you a false sense of confidence. Which is extremely important if you are in high school. Or just in general, I suppose.

3.) If you’re having a bad day, Arctic Monkeys are the cure. Put Fluorescent Adolescent on.

4.) Read the newspaper. You can learn from adult’s mistakes.

5.) Keep a journal. Write down your thoughts even if you think they are stupid. They aren’t, and you’ll want to keep them. Write down dates: May 9th, September 28th, March 5th. Write down names: Sydney, Olivia, Greg, Tara. Write down words: black, cracked, glowing. It will be how you remember.

6.) Raspberries are the best desert.

7.) Never mail anything of vast importance in France. I repeat: never mail anything of vast importance in France.

8.) Buy shirts from concerts you go to. Especially if they’re black and oversized. You can sleep in them on stormy nights, and everything will seem alright.

9.) Missing your 2:37 p.m. train is okay sometimes. You can always catch the midnight one, and a lot can happen between 2:37 and midnight turns out.

10.) Lipstick is a good makeshift pen.

11.) Amélie is a lovely lovely movie. My favorite quote: « Si Amélie préfère vivre dans le rêve et rester une jeune fille introvertie, c’est son droit. Car rater sa vie est un droit inaliénable. » (« If Amélie wants to live in a dream and remain an introverted little girl, that is her right. Because to mess up one’s own life is an inalienable right. ») Genius.

12.) They don’t play french songs in french clothing stores. And that made me really sad for some reason.

13.) The people that keep in touch with you while you’re gone are the important ones.

14.) Carbonated water is an acquired taste. And once you’ve acquired it, its quite lovely.

15.) Don’t smoke. It is not romantic and quite addictive I hear.

16.) Don’t think you can get through life without a planner. You absolutely cannot. Buy one with purple flowers on it and use it every day.

17.) Take lots and lots of photos. Blurry photos, stupid photos, pretentious photos, black and white photos, funny photos, pointless photos. Lots of photos.

18.) It is very important to learn how to make macaroons if you live in France.

19.) It is very difficult to make macaroons.

20.) You need at least six playlists: a sleep playlist, a feels playlist, a running playlist, a people are stupid playlist, an I’m happy playlist, and an I’m sad playlist.

21.) In cathedrals you can pay 1 euro to light a candle and say a prayer. It’s worth it, and mine came true.

22.) French shoelaces are always ridiculously long. Always. Thus I learned how to quadruple knot my laces.

23.) Daisy chains aren’t that hard to make.

24.) 25 degrees Celsius = shorts or a skirt, 15 degrees Celsius = one jacket, 10 degrees Celsius = two jackets, 5 degrees Celsius = three or more jackets plus some mittens ideally.

25.) No more film by Essie is the best nail polish color.

26.) He’s not going to call you half the time. And thats alright. Go read a book or listen to the Postal Service or something.

27.) The Wednesday bus driver (line 5, direction Patton) had a girlfriend and she stood by the ticket machine up and down the route every morning just to talk to him. There are things like this in the world that give me hope.

28.) Lavender jam is so so good.

29.) In France they don’t use “quotes” they use « these weird things. »

30.) You can learn quite a bit from graffiti, actually. « Je suis sage femme. » « Its okey. » « J’etais une fois innocent. » « La beauté est dans la rue. » (I am wise woman, It’s okay/okey, I was once innocent, The beauty is in the street. )

31.) Try not to trip down an entire flight of stairs on the first day of school. (No I did not do this….)

32.) French Vogue is lovely.

33.) Saturday afternoon picnics are very necessary.

34.) Striped clothing is a wardrobe staple.

35.) Keep your coat pockets zipped on the Paris metro. People are horrible. And you will need your phone.

36.) Vampire weekend + Tuesdays = good

37.) If you don’t have a friend that buys you dark chocolate after a really really not okay day then you are hanging around the wrong people.

38.) Write letters. Lots of them. Remind people about things they might have forgotten.

39.) If you’re sick, don’t go to school. Get a bag of cough drops, a box of Kleenex, and watch Dirty Dancing.

40.) If you aren’t sick, but wish you were, go to school. You can’t hide forever and chances are they have already forgotten about it.

41.) Befriend the neighbor’s cat.

42.) Always study for math tests. You will thank yourself when you finish 10 minutes early and don’t have to run to catch the bus.

43.) Make lists. Lots of lists. They make everything seem more manageable.

44.) It’s okay to get addicted to coffee as long as you have a steady supply of it.

45.) At the Centre Pompidou (a big museum in Paris) there was this one exhibition that I will never forget. It was a big glass cabinet with plastic body parts on corresponding shelves, ( like an ear on the top shelf, a heart on the middle shelf, etc.) and I don’t know it just reminded me that we’re all just collections of white twigs and sticky red stuff.

46.) There is really nothing better than looking at city lights after midnight.

47.) French paper is weird. There are so many lines.

48.) Friday afternoon tea with that girl you sit next to in history class is just what you need sometimes.

49.) Sometimes people dip empty words in sugar and its so sweet until you bite down and there’s nothing. Just be careful, I guess.

50.) It is so important to learn another language. And when you kind of have it down, don’t stop speaking it. Tell the man who sells flowers on the corner you hope he’s happy. Ask a stranger directions to a place you already know how to get to just to see if you understand what she’s saying. Tell the girl on the bus you like her shoes.

51.) Fountain pens are so cool and everyone needs one.

52.) If you’re bored, call a friend and go for a walk downtown. You can talk about The Drums and get coffee.

53.) Seeing movies in foreign languages is always an intimidating but rewarding experience. (i.e. the Yves Saint Laurent movie)

54.) Always have a book to read on the bus. I recommend The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath.

55.) Color code stuff. Its easier and prettier that way.

56.) French frozen yogurt is weird but French normal yogurt is the best thing ever.

57.) « Do I Wanna Know » (Arctic Monkeys), « We Looked Like Giants » (Death Cab for Cutie), « Countdown » (Phoenix) and « Handshake » (Two Door Cinema Club) were always what I needed. And still need sometimes.

58.) Le Marais is really hard to find.

59.) At Christmas time, French cities will twirl lights into trees and entire streets will glow. It’s magic.

60.) The House of Bones in Barcelona was weird cause I could somehow relate to it. A fragile assembly of bones and kaleidoscopic glass. Yeah that sounds familiar.

61.) You can never have enough gum in your bag.

62.) Write poetry if you want to. Even if you think its stupid and that nobody will get it. You don’t have to show anyone and its quite therapeutic, promise.

63.) Learn how to forgive cause sometimes you are the one that needs to be forgiven.

64.) If its raining and your umbrella is broken its okay. Pretend you’re in a movie or something.

65.) Vintage french boutiques are so fantastic. They had the best sweaters for 14 euros.

66.) Your best friend might listen to Death Cab For Cutie too and have hair like silk, but don’t trust just anyone. People can be really really horrible turns out.

67.) Its okay to collapse into a muddled heap of purple lids and ripped tights sometimes. Just remember to get back up.

68.) Oversized blue sweatshirts + chamomile tea + french movies = a good Friday night.

69.) Make an « I’m having a bad day » folder on your computer with stupid photos and beautiful quotes and old memories. It will make you feel better when you need it.

70.) He doesn’t care. Not enough to tell the truth at least.

71.) The Paris metro stops working at 3 am.

72.) They say cities are ugly. Grey concrete and billowing smoke. But I’ve never been to cities more beautiful than the ones I found in France. There was nothing ugly about the swirling banisters and there was nothing, nothing ugly about the blushing people.

73.) Collapsing onto stairs in a fancy restaurant with your best friend because of something ridiculously funny is totally fine.

74.) Buy yourself a pair of French heeled boots. In black obviously. It is extremely important that you own some.

75.) You will always feel 100x better after a run.

76.) Go to modern art exhibitions on Thursday evenings. You will love feeling lost and nostalgic.

77.) There’s no such thing as too much black eyeliner in France. That being said French teenagers are horrible at putting on mascara.

78.) Always have makeup wipes, chapstick, and bobby pins in your bag.

79.) Fall blurs into winter blurs into spring blurs into goodbyes.

80.) Throwing rocks into the sea is so fun. They make quite satisfying sloshes.

81.) Sydney is a really, really good person. She’s a sister to me. She always told me the truth. And she told me today (about our future apartment): « I’m thinking maybe we’ll change our plans, and instead of living in Brooklyn, we’ll get a really cute studio apartment in Manhattan on one of the top floors of a skyrise. We’ll have shampoo that smells like angels, a really nice shower curtain, just to spite the French, and a window overlooking the coffee shops with wifi that we’ll never need car nous aurons notre propre réseau internet (cause we’ll have our own wifi network).

82.) Phoenix will change your life. I’m not kidding. Go download all of their albums if you have not already. Everything is Everything.

83.) Cut the people that made you hurt out of your life. They’re poison and you don’t need any more of that running through your veins. I’m not going to call sorry.

84.) « Le succès a tout prix. » Success is the best form of revenge.

85.) Pretzel thins dipped in Nutella are the best thing to eat on Saturdays. Sydney can back me up on this.

86.) Making French friends isn’t easy but once you breach the frosty, forbidding exterior most French teenagers seem to posses, your efforts will be rewarded. Marie, I miss you and thanks for giving me a hug that one day I was not okay. I nearly cried when you did.

87.) Nobody wears berets there.

88.) If you’re angry find your best friend and a place to shout-sing Avril Lavigne at the top of both of your lungs. It makes it better; I promise.

89.) Buy the dress. It makes your skin glow. It makes you look like you don’t care what they were saying about you after school on Wednesday.

90.) When you ride the bus, look around you. At the business man always glancing at his wristwatch. At the school girl smearing on lipstick on the 7:14 route. At the woman in the yellow coat always reading. You can learn so much about the way people work.

91.) Bookstores are the same in every country. Lots of books and smart people and the smell of ink.

92.) Don’t be intimidated by the girl who is already fluent in French. She is one of the most kindhearted people you will probably ever meet and you can learn a lot from her (not just how to conjugate verbs – real stuff too).

93.) Sad and happy aren’t always black and white. Rain isn’t something that only exists in nature and the same goes for sunshine.

94.) Salvador Dalí was deathly afraid of grasshoppers.

95.) People will tell you that the Mona Lisa is too small and encased behind 2 inches of glass. But aren’t we all. And I hope to master her mysterious smile someday.

96.) If you make a best friend that lives in New York, be prepared to miss her horribly when it’s all over.

97.) Socialist government = no sales tax.

98.) People are so so fragile. They’re just bones and you have to be careful (see 45, 60).

99.) Don’t wear high heeled shoes out to dinner even if you are trying to be classy. Your arches will sting and you won’t be able to walk home without wobbling.

100.) Somewhere in the blur of blue lights, sticky people and rainy weeknights, you will find a home in France. And leaving it will break your heart. I learned that it is just as easy to fall in love with a place as it is to fall in love with people.

XX, The Girl in the Little Black Dress

P.S. Listen to this song: Down By The Water – The Drums

P.P.S. Comment which of these (if any) made sense to you.

Posted in All Posts | 105 Comments

A Poem or Something

Dear Reader,

My last assignment in English class was to write a poem about my year in France. And I wrote this. My english teacher made me read it aloud in front of the entire school the last week of school and I almost started crying. (I was emotionally unstable because I knew I had to say goodbye to all my friends in three days.)Capture d’écran 2014-08-24 à 17.44.13

Capture d’écran 2014-08-24 à 17.44.28

Capture d’écran 2014-08-24 à 17.44.40


XX, The Girl in the Little Black Dress

P.S. Listen to this song: Palo Alto

(I strongly recommend this movie by the way here’s the trailer)

Posted in All Posts, My Year in France, Poetry | Tagged | 26 Comments