Afterward when travelers to Paris talk – and they do – much is sometimes made of the city’s saleswomen. Polished to a gloss and presiding within the chic boutiques of Avenue Montaigne, or windswept, stoic and cold behind the winter apple display of an outdoor market,...
“You’re a doormat,” says Kristin, the hypnotherapist. I perch, pathetic, on the edge of her soft, green sofa. The sofa sags from the weight of the woe I and countless hypnotherapees before me have brought to Kristin’s office for healing. “You’re afraid to say the word...
Bazaar Hôtel de Ville In the bed department of Bazaar Hôtel de Ville, Mademoiselle in charge of duvets pulls a particularly puffy one from the display of every weight – summer, autumn, Arctic – and offers a feel to Dad. Mom, meanwhile, sits weary and collapsed...
When successful London banker Janine Marsh was gripped by the (to her) ridiculous idea of owning a ramshackle farmhouse in seriously rural France, she did not toss it off – Ta ta and all that. Instead, she rallied her disbelieving husband, Mark, and before the couple...
We sat in the salon and talked of what went wrong. Heartbreak had happened, for sure, but Candy couldn’t convince me a love life in Paris would be that much better than the mess I left in San Francisco. There, my boyfriend shed me like his head had his hair –...
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