#nostalgic Parisian decor

[ariadnew]

CTJL 2021, ROUND 7: PARIS

Archie had lived in Paris once, when he was eighteen. He and three of his closest mates, newly graduated, living out of a predictably small, predictably bohemian apartment in Montmartre while they spent the summer making pocket money teaching English to French kids and exploring their newfound adult freedom to the fullest extent they dared. 

All of this is, naturally, entirely new information to Dot.

Much to her delight, he continues on the Metro. One of his best friends, he tells her, got a job peeling vegetables and washing dishes at a restaurant governed by an Escoffier-trained chef, just to line his pockets. He fell wickedly and firmly in love with the world of the kitchen that summer. They barely saw him. He’s a sous-chef at one of London’s swankiest hotels now. And they still barely see him. Another spent those months honing his already prodigious talent for the social. Their apartment, he relates with a smile that is half-nostalgic, half-bashful, was frequently stuffed to the brim with strangers and friends alike; people found in clubs, markets, parks, cafes, galleries, streets; artists, actors, dancers, dreamers, and anything in between. On particularly notable occasions, their guests included a thalassophobic carcinologist, a Viennese piano technician, a professor of film studies, a diplomat’s (alleged) former mistress, and a fascinatingly cheerful mortician. Mostly, however, he recalls women. Lyndsay had a new girl on his arm every time they saw him, it seemed. Sometimes two. Sometimes two on each arm. Two on each arm, and a few in tow for his single friends. He was- by his own testimony- “unerringly generous” in that regard.

– But those, Archie says, as abrupt as the gentle appearance of colour in his cheeks, are stories for another time. His tone and his haste to depart the Metro tell her that another time is likely code for never. 

* It is to Montmartre he is taking them that morning, to a small cafe tucked between a fromagerie and a shop crammed as ambitiously as it precariously with ceramics. It’s a street of vibrancy, filled with colour and quirkiness and life. Awnings flutter bright against the grey Parisian sky; the numbing autumn air is tinted with the warm, wheaten smell of a busy bakery. They pass a record store painted red and a glacier in shades of orange and ice; beneath signs announcing costumières in flamboyant strokes and bric-à-brac with scraps of rusted metal. Tables and chairs are arranged dutifully outside eateries and are occupied by equally dutiful locals taking their morning coffee and smoking in the drizzle. The gutter underfoot trickles and glistens with overnight rain, crumpled with sodden copper leaves and cigarette butts. A middle-aged man looks away in a display of feigned ignorance while the Bull Terrier at the end of his lead hunches over the pavement. A woman in a long skirt flies by on a bicycle hurling words Dot doesn’t understand but cannot possibly be complimentary. A leaf flutters to the pavement; a distant horn blares. Weak morning light gleams in the wet of the cobbled road.

Agatha has agreed to join them for breakfast, though it is not because she has any real desire for their company.

She has taken the seat to Dot’s right, where she currently sits tall and aloof and dabbing a stray rain drop from her cheek with her sleeve, eyeing the eclectic decor and commenting on the oddly tart-sweet smell of baked, borderline-burned apricots. Clad in stiletto boots and an elegant designer coat that’d cover Dot’s rent for the next five months, she does not look like a woman who frequented colourful cafes squashed within a city’s most offbeat streets and ate crooked, bleeding pastries for breakfast. She looks like a woman who’d be more at home dining in the Four Seasons’ breakfast room, or at one of those famed Belle Epoque brasseries Dot read about in a tourist guide, one of green glasswork and gold and all things art nouveau, with prices as impossible as its waiting list. She imagines her briefly, the heroine of some Jazz Age novel, svelte and sparkling in an evening gown and elbow-length gloves with a cigarette holder perched in a languid, elegant hand; smoking Turkish cigarettes and listening to jazz while men in sharp suits and dapper haircuts line up to bring her expensive champagne and beget her elusive attention. It is not an altogether difficult image to conjure. But Agatha is not at the Four Seasons, nor at one of the most coveted tables among the city’s brasseries (nor, indeed, in another time period). Agatha is here, looking as out of place as a Vermeer hanging in a kindergarten classroom—

And she is here, it turns out, because this is not her first time in Paris. 

Parisians, she has found, are frequently afflicted with sudden and violent bouts of amnesia where the English language is concerned. Manners, too. Thus, a companion fluent in the language whilst in the capital is an incomparable advantage. How convenient it is, then, that Archie– as he has frequently reminded them over the course of their stay– is able to speak the language fluently! It also happens that he is in possession of an unnatural amount of patience, and- even more convenient!- is already on her payroll. Why wouldn’t she take advantage of that? Agatha isn’t in the mood to handle Parisian attitude. True, she isn’t really in the mood to handle English attitude, either, but the devil you know and all that. He might as well work for his wage. Make himself useful. Be worth the trouble. For once. 

It is for this reason alone she has deigned to keep Archie around, even if the cost is having to endure a morning of him flaunting his irritatingly good French, being irritatingly nonchalant about how irritatingly good it is, and being around Archie in general.

Dot knows this, because Agatha has just finished telling her. 

Archie must also know this, because she has not waited for him to leave after handing him a fistful of euros and telling him to order for her. Now. Please. (It makes him go away faster, she’d explained) (again, right in front of him)

Archie looks at Dot, the picture of sangfroid, and holds up Agatha’s euros.

‘Care to join me, Dottie?’ His tone is cool and smooth as the inside of a luxury car; his eyes spark with hidden humour. ‘Order what you like; Agatha’s just offered us our breakfast today. Awfully generous of her.’ ‘I put up w-’ ‘Awfully generous indeed.’ Agatha lowers her phone and looks Dot square in the eye. Having been in her employ longer and more closely than most, one would think she’d have grown accustomed to the unnerving, burning darkness of her mistress’ eyes.

She has not. (... If anything, it’d only gotten scarier)

‘Go with him, Dot.’ Agatha turns her eyes back to her phone, her voice low and bored. ‘And make sure you take your time.’

If Archie is similarly unnerved, he doesn’t show it. He meets Dot’s eye, flashes her a smile, and gestures with a sweep of his arm toward the register, as unconcerned and cheerful as ever.

* Part II of angry breakfast tomorrow. 👉 😎 👉

[grandioneventvenue]

10 Unique Anniversary Party Ideas to Celebrate Your Love

Celebrating an anniversary is a special way to honor the love and commitment shared between two people. Whether it’s your first anniversary or your golden jubilee, marking the occasion with a memorable party is a great way to relive your journey together. If you’re looking for unique anniversary party ideas to make your celebration stand out, you’ve come to the right place! Here are ten creative ways to celebrate your love.

1. Recreate Your Wedding Day 💍

Why not take a walk down memory lane by recreating the magic of your wedding day? Invite your closest family and friends, wear outfits reminiscent of your big day, and even play the same music from your wedding. This nostalgic celebration will surely tug at everyone’s heartstrings and bring back beautiful memories.

2. Host a Themed Dinner Party 🍽️

Turn your anniversary into a culinary adventure by hosting a themed dinner party. Whether it’s a Parisian bistro night, an Italian feast, or a tropical luau, choosing a theme adds an extra layer of fun. Decorate your venue to match the theme, and serve dishes that transport your guests to another place.

3. Create a Memory Lane Walkway 🛤️

Showcase your journey together by creating a memory lane walkway. Display photos from key moments in your relationship along a path, leading to a central location where the party will take place. This thoughtful idea not only decorates your venue but also allows guests to share in your memories.

4. Plan a Surprise Renewal of Vows 💒

Surprise your partner with a vow renewal ceremony as part of your anniversary celebration. Whether it’s a small, intimate affair or a grand event, renewing your vows can be a touching way to reaffirm your commitment and love. It’s a beautiful reminder of the promises you made on your wedding day.

5. Host a Movie Night Under the Stars 🌟

Set up a projector in your backyard or a rented venue and host a cozy movie night under the stars. Choose a selection of your favorite romantic movies or films that hold special significance to your relationship. Don’t forget the popcorn, blankets, and pillows to create a comfy, intimate atmosphere.

6. Have a Destination Celebration ✈️

If you’re feeling adventurous, why not take the party on the road? Plan a destination celebration at a location that holds special meaning to you both—whether it’s where you first met, your honeymoon spot, or a dream vacation destination. It’s a perfect way to turn your anniversary into a memorable getaway.

7. Host a Wine Tasting Party 🍷

Celebrate your anniversary with a sophisticated wine-tasting party. Select a variety of wines that represent different stages of your relationship or that you both enjoy. Pair the wines with gourmet cheeses and chocolates for a delightful and refined experience.

8. Plan a Charity Event 🎗️

Give back on your special day by hosting a charity event. Choose a cause that’s close to your hearts and organize a fundraising event as part of your anniversary celebration. Not only will you celebrate your love, but you’ll also make a positive impact on the community.

9. Create a Time Capsule 📦

Invite your guests to contribute to a time capsule filled with messages, mementos, and photos from your anniversary celebration. Seal the capsule and make plans to open it on a future anniversary. This unique idea allows you to preserve memories and relive them in years to come.

10. Host a Cooking Class Party 👨‍🍳

Turn your anniversary party into a hands-on cooking experience by hosting a cooking class. Hire a chef or take a class together with your guests to learn how to prepare a special dish. It’s a fun, interactive way to bond with your loved ones while enjoying delicious food.

No matter how you choose to celebrate, your anniversary is a time to reflect on your journey together and create new memories. These unique anniversary party ideas offer a range of creative ways to mark your special day. From intimate gatherings to grand celebrations, the most important thing is to celebrate your love in a way that feels meaningful to you.

Ready to start planning your unforgettable anniversary party? Contact us today to explore how we can help make your celebration truly special. Let’s create an event that you and your loved ones will cherish for years to come! 🎉

[teeneoncom]

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[elonasblog]

Libra Zodiac Sign New Year's Eve Social Gathering Themes

For a New Year's Eve party that caters to the Libra zodiac sign, you'll want to focus on creating a harmonious and social atmosphere that appeals to their love for beauty, balance, and connection. Here are some social Libra Zodiac Sign New Year's Eve Social Gathering Themes

Masquerade Ball: Host an elegant masquerade ball where guests can dress up in elaborate costumes and masks. Libras appreciate beauty and aesthetics, so this theme allows them to showcase their creativity while enjoying a night of dancing and socializing.

A Night in Paris: Transform your venue into a Parisian-inspired setting with romantic decor, café-style seating, and French cuisine. Libras will enjoy the sophisticated ambiance and the opportunity to engage in meaningful conversations.

Garden Soiree: Create a charming outdoor garden party with fairy lights, floral arrangements, and cozy seating areas. Libras will relish the serene atmosphere and the chance to connect with friends in a beautiful setting.

Art Gallery Gala: Turn your space into a temporary art gallery, showcasing local artists' work. Libras have a strong appreciation for art and culture, and this theme allows them to enjoy both socializing and exploring their artistic side.

Harmony by the Sea: If you're near a beach or waterfront, consider a seaside gathering. Set up lounging areas with comfy cushions and provide opportunities for beach games, live music, and enjoying the sunset. Libras will appreciate the tranquil and balanced environment.

Cocktail Mixer: Host a sophisticated cocktail mixer where guests can enjoy a variety of unique cocktails and mocktails. Libras enjoy the social aspect of mingling and chatting, and this theme encourages them to connect over drinks.

Vintage Glamour: Transport guests back in time with a vintage glamour theme. Decorate with retro elements, play old-school music, and encourage guests to dress in vintage-inspired attire. Libras will appreciate the nostalgic charm and the chance to engage in conversations about eras gone by.

Relationship Building Workshop: Capitalize on Libra's strong desire for connection by hosting a workshop focused on building and nurturing relationships. Activities could include icebreakers, team-building exercises, and discussions about communication and collaboration.

Salsa Dancing Fiesta: Libras enjoy movement and connection, making a salsa dancing fiesta a fantastic idea. Hire dance instructors to teach guests some basic salsa steps, and then let everyone hit the dance floor to show off their moves.

Trivia Night with a Twist: Combine Libra's love for socializing with a trivia night that includes questions about art, culture, and social history. This engaging activity encourages guests to form teams, collaborate, and have fun together.

Remember to pay attention to creating a well-balanced atmosphere with aesthetically pleasing decorations, opportunities for meaningful interactions, and an overall sense of harmony. Libras thrive in social settings, and these themes will help ensure that your New Year's Eve party aligns with their preferences and desires.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

After seeing hundreds of white homes, (this trend is really getting to me), I finally came across Anna & Benjamin’s colorful Parisian flat. Yay. Mad about their turquoise Chesterfield chairs. 

Anna and Benjamin sit on a bright vintage Chesterfield sofa. The coffee table is by artist Antonin Raymond. The Cubist wallpaper was bought at the Czech Cubism Museum in Prague.

Art and old cabinets impress the hall. A helmet and a work of art are displayed on the Napoleon III era cabinet in the hall leading from the salon.

Mid-century style dining room. The table made in Italy in the 1960s, features uniquely shaped legs. The chairs are retro and colorful '50s Formica (reinforced synthetic resin).

There’s a little gallery on a classic mantel.

A retro-modern Tivoli Audio radio sits on a rosewood sideboard with a glossy finish.

A study corner with a glossy desk and a chair from the Napoleon III era against a blue wall. A portrait of a 19th century woman in a gold frame on the wall has the frame color linked to the gold lamps on top. The floor is laid out with parquet.

The gorgeous bed, with paintings and nacre of seashells, also dates from the Napoleon III era. For the bedspread, Anna chose a bright light blue to match the color of the wall.

Photographs and a collection of old handbags are added between the books. The armchair is from a Parisian restaurant.

A surprise is the huge airplane model hung in a bright bathroom with white tiles. The old bathtub, wash basin, and cement tiles with a retro pattern on the floor give a moderately nostalgic impression.

https://www.elle.com/jp/decor/decor-interior-design/g99019/dpi-edecor1401-benjamin-anna14-0206/?slide=2

[ally-127]

paris with taehyung

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: romance; fluff and smut

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: reader x idol!taehyung

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: it’s just been far too long since he’d seen her, he would practically do anything. even if it’s abrupt—like buying a one-way ticket for her to travel halfway across the world without telling her. night(s) spent at a fancy hotel might simply be the perfect way to make up for what they’ve lost in the months they’ve been apart

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.6k

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: some swearing

𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐜: serendipity - park jimin

you didn’t know how you ended up in such an extravagant hotel room in such an extravagant place, but you did.

all because of a text and a phone call from him.

the notification on your phone simply said:

pack your things and call your boss. you’re going to paris.

it was five pm in the evening on a weekday and you really couldn’t tell if he was joking. until your phone started ringing. his name appeared on your screen and your heart made the tiniest flip between your ribcage. even after five years, he seemed to have that effect on you. it’s ridiculous, you thought to yourself. regardless you picked up the phone immediately, not bothering to wait.

“hello?” you chirped, drumming your fingers on the table as you sit by the kitchen bar in your shared empty apartment. you and taehyung bought it together. but these days, you were the only one who resided in it.

“hey,” his voice was deep and husky as it resonated through the phone and into your eardrums. it was a familiar sound that made brought you warmth every time you heard it, a sound that you grasped on every time you felt you hit rock bottom. a voice that made you miss him so much it hurt.

across the line you heard him exhale from relief that he could finally hear your voice after a long, hectic day. you imagined the small smile that completely lit up his face as he held his phone to his ear. that small smile he reserved for private moments like this, for moments where he knew there would always be someone waiting for him on the other line, that you would always be there to pick up.

the low hum in the background indicated that he was in the car, probably on the way to the venue in wherever he and the boys were set to perform that night.

“what’s that message about?” you teased him, as you usually did.

“i really miss you,” he said. you pictured him running his fingers through his hair. it was a habit he always had and couldn’t get rid of, you could just see him do it in times like this. “far too much, y/n, please come to me.”

“how shall i do that?” you gnawed at your bottom lip. your chest tightened at the hint of desperation in his voice as he said your name.

five months deprived of him, of his touch, of his love. it tended to mess with your head, bring tears to your eyes and bring about numerous sleepless nights. delusional assumptions that he’d left you haunted you, only for you to later realise how wrong you were when your phone began to ring every other night.

“i bought a plane ticket for you,” he confessed. you could tell he was trying his best not to stutter. “a first-class, direct flight to paris.”

suddenly, you ran out of words to say. his tone explained it all. he was being dead serious.

“tae…” you drawled on. “i can’t, you know i can’t.”

your job would be on the line and you’ve worked your heart and soul to get it. for you, finances didn’t come as easily as it did for him. every offer taehyung had made to help you in terms of money, you refused it. it wasn’t for your ego, for your pride. it was for the effort put in years and years of studying that you needed to make up for. and you made a promise to yourself that the only source of finance you had and were ever going to have was yourself.

especially once you started loving and dating someone whose face and name were splashed across every single billboard and music chart around the world.

“please,” the need in his voice was so evident it would have made you seem cruel if you turned him down.

you sighed. your desperation mirrored his, but he was always better at expressing it. he knew the right words to throw you off your mental wall that built up after years and years of experiences of careless lovers, to guard your weak heart and your faltering mind.

“it’s been five long months,” he was never a needy lover. but at this point of time, he was almost craving for you. he wanted you in his arms, his lips on yours, effective immediately. “spend a night or a month with me, i don’t care. i just need to see you.”

“i’ll arrange something with the office,” you tap the pencil between your fingers on your temple. in your mind, you’ve already begun planning what you should do to just get a week off. all for him.

“promise me that you’ll try,” of all people, taehyung understood what it meant to be completely immersed and devoted to your job. but his tone almost offended you, like he’d lost his faith in you and your will to try for your relationship.

the desire to prove him wrong––and how much you actually loved him––overpowered your senses. you ended up calling up the office for leave, shoving a week’s worth of clothing into your suitcase and hailing a cab to the airport in the span of two days. before boarding the flight with the ticket he’d bought for you, you took advantage of the privileges the thousand dollar ticket gave you. you downed as much champagne as you could in the unnecessarily prestigious lounge, to make yourself drowsy for the twelve-hour flight.

and that was how you ended up in this room.

the room that’s furniture and interior simply screamed luxury. the room that seemed to have taehyung’s presence everywhere. the french, ornate wainscotting on the walls was lined with gold and painted a brilliant white. the air carried a light tang of jasmine from the branded diffusers that scattered around the room. you swore you could smell him amidst the strong fragrance. your sensitive nose picked up on the remnants of his familiar cologne that he’d spritzed on right before he headed out.

the scent was so personal, so nostalgic you swore he was right in the room with you.

the cream-coloured, plush carpeted floor sunk under the soles of your feet as you glanced around the room, suitcase still in hand.

he’d opted for a suite, instead of a regular room.

just for the two of you.

parisian armchairs and sofas greeted you first, making the king-sized bed seem miles away, hidden in a separate space.

you trudged towards it and tucked your suitcase idly in the corner, next to his. you felt out of place here and as you glanced at the time by the clock placed on the bedside table, you realised that you had two hours before he would be back.

if he was here, he’d help you adjust to the lavishness, the expensive lifestyle you had laid out right before you. he’d explain each and every detail to the opulence existing in this very room. he was not even close to being a superficial person, he just simply had upscaled tastes compared to yourself.

you ran your finger against the intricate carvings on the wall, eyes flicking up to look out the window.

the view of the entire city took your whole breath away.

as an artist, you noticed the details first. the buildings were coated with a light tinge of yellow, tinted from age. amidst the buildings and in the blurry distance, stood the eiffel tower. the prized possession and pride of paris, a structure in which carried the reputation of this artistic, metropolitan city.

with the help of the warm evening sunlight, you let your eyes glaze over the architecture and drink in the dwellings built hundreds of years ago. your heart swelled in your chest as your eyes traced every splash of colour, every movement of beings and vehicles on the parisian streets. it was a moment of serenity, where all problems seemed like nothing at all.

autumn treated paris well. hues of reds, oranges and yellows from fallen leaves decorated the sidewalk of roads where cars zoomed by, where careless pedestrians jaywalked. the occasional honks from cars and dings of bells from bicycles that reverberated from below became a melody to which you savoured. for once, you and your hectic mind were at peace.

the blissful nonchalance of your mind drove you to the ensuite bathroom. you stripped yourself free of your worn-out hoodie and sweats you’ve been wearing for the past fifteen hours and step into the shower.

the screech of the copper faucet sent alleviating, steaming water down on you, cleansing you from the germs and dust of the plane ride. you coated yourself with the body wash and shampoo that’s scent paired with the diffuser outside, which was a ridiculous but congenial touch. the glass walls of the shower fogged up from the smoke rising from your body, your fingers tracing random shapes on the water vapour.

stepping out of the shower made you realise how quiet the room was, the only sounds emitting were the draining of water in the shower and the subtle hum of electricity from the elegant fixtures on the ceilings and against the marble wall of the bathroom.

you found yourself missing the rich echo of his voice that bounced off every surface and kept you in its embrace.

the sink was cold as you braced yourself on it, hair wet and a towel wrapped around you. you stared at yourself through the reflection in the antique mirror placed right in front of you.

tired, you may look due to the dark under-eye circles, you seemed to have a sense of exuberance thrum through you. the thought of seeing him again made your head spin and your heart race in your chest. to hear his voice and see his face in his own perfect form––not through the screen or speakers of your phone––excited you in ways you couldn’t explain.

you let your hair air dry and dressed in a short, silk robe. you found that it was a rather appropriate attire for a hotel room like this, where luxury here matched with the material of your robe.

moments later, you found yourself seated on the soft bed, sketchbook propped up against your bent knees while you sketched out the only thing, the only person that was on your mind.

taehyung.

infatuation, was the only explanation people could offer you about this magnetic force of attraction you had with him. but you two weren’t teenagers anymore. twenty-four and ridiculously immersed with one another was what you were. six years wasn’t enough to tame the flame, the pull you had with him. the more time you spent apart from him, the more you yearned for him.

you figured that this was natural, but sometimes it was just far too overwhelming.

you closed your eyes and took a shuddering breath, picturing him in the back of your mind. you remembered tracing your fingers across his face as he stared into your eyes in the darkness of your bedroom, in times where a schedule did not take up the whole day and in times where he didn’t have to travel a million miles away to perform for millions of fans.

as if a spell had been cast, your pencil began to draw the outlines of his face with precision and details you didn’t think you could recall. you were filled with reminiscence as you marked down his round, puppy-like eyes, smiling to yourself when you remember the way he would sway you with those mischievous irises.

you knew the exact shape of his full, distinct lips. he would use them to kiss you on your forehead, on your lips. he would use them to showcase his talents, his singing, his acting. the familiar, low, smoky voice would emit from them, in addition with his wicked smile that lured each and everyone in. you drew his straight nose, not forgetting to add the tiny freckle that he had on the under the tip of his nose, close to his septum–– a place you loved pressing your lips gently to in private moments you two could manage to obtain.

you began to sharpen his features on your sketchbook, adding shadows to where it was needed, under his defined lips, his chiselled jawline, his high cheekbones. with shadows came the highlights, using the eraser on the back of your pencil to add brightness to his face.

you began to draw the outline of his hair, strands his fingers ran through whenever stress and anxiety managed to break through his hard shell, strands that your fingers tug every time you made love. you pondered on what colour he must have dyed it thus far, a question that reminded you of just how long you haven’t seen him. the strokes of your pencil were soon in sync with your anticipated heartbeat, the fact of being able to see him again looming over you the entire time you draw.

hours later, across the room, amidst the peaceful silence, you heard a click by the door. you stood from where you were sitting on the bed, striding your way calmly to the living room to see who it was. your mind was too focused on the door to realise you were still holding onto your sketchbook and pencil. you could hear the sound more clearly, and it sounded like a card sliding in and out of the slot in the lock. you heard another click and the metal door handle was pushed down.

the door creaked opened and in came a tall figure. a figure you knew all too well, a figure you had been aching for, came into sight.

your heart forgot a beat when he looked up only to see you standing right in front of him, finally coming to a realisation that you’d actually made your decision to come here. his pink lips parted in surprise, his dark eyes lighting up as soon as his eyes scanned across your face.

“taehyung,” you breathed, tossing the materials in your hands to the side.

he stalked hastily towards you and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you so close and tight it knocked the wind out of you. his arms were wrapped around your waist as you stood on your toes to reach his height, encircling your arms around his neck. you felt him bury his nose in the crook of your neck and felt his chest rise and fall from his heavy breaths, inhaling the entirety of your presence in. he hadn’t said a word, but you didn’t care. he was here with you and you were here with him. it was the only thing that mattered.

“y/n,” he pulled away to look at you. “i missed you so fucking much.” there was that voice you missed listening to oh so much.

a voice you much rather hear in places that weren’t over the phone.

with his hands grasping your jaw gently to tilt your head up towards him, he kissed you, raw and hard. his lips on yours was something close to euphoric, his fingers stretching up to weave through the delicate strands of your hair. years and years of memories came flooding back to you while tears pricked the back of your eyes. you held them back, releasing your lips from him to whisper,

“i know,” you caressed his cheek with the edge of your index finger. “i missed you too.”

his light brown hair was dishevelled from the concert that he’d just performed an hour or so ago. he was dressed in a sleek blazer over a t-shirt with black jeans. he looked exactly the same as he did when he left. ravishing, as usual.

once he was willing to let you go, you bent down to pick up your sketchbook and pencil. your eyes catch the small, tender smile he had hung on his face, your heart blossoming at the sight. you made your way to the bedroom before he could get nosy about what you were drawing. he’d always been inquisitive about what and how you were creating art every time an idea struck you, it was in his nature to do so.

“are you hungry?” you asked him as you set your sketchbook down on the bedside table, not ready to show him your creation yet.

he nodded while he licked his bottom lip. taehyung had this habit of sticking his tongue out on his bottom lip at random times, and you had noticed it ever since you met him. it was so adorable in the way you just wanted to hug him, like a puppy.

a smile quirked by your lips, your heart still pounding in your chest. from the bed, you glanced at him as he took off his blazer effortlessly and swung it by the chair nearest to him. his light brown hair fell down to his eyes as he kneeled down on the carpeted floor to untie his shoelaces.

he was too busy with untying them that he didn’t notice your stare.

or so you thought.

“what are you staring at?” his boxy smile reflected yours, standing up from where he was crouching on the ground. he could sense your stare from miles away.

“you,” you admitted slyly.

he chuckled deeply, voice echoing throughout the bedroom. he made his way round the bed to you. “i’m going to order room service. want anything?”

you shook your head, leaning back against the headboard.

“if you say so,” he reached forward to pick up the phone on the bedside table to call for his meal.

he made his order swiftly, his english not once faltering. you beamed with pride, the english you’ve been teaching him coming into effect. you couldn’t take full credit for it, though. he’d just gone on a world tour and he had namjoon to practice with, after all.

“you’re improving,” you mused as you sit cross-legged on the bed, beside him.

he sat himself down in front of you, directing his unwavering gaze at you. “namjoon has been helping me.”

you found it even more impressive that he figured out what you were talking about without needing you to specify what exactly it is.

“i really don’t like language barriers,” he told you. “it’s so hard to communicate with people everywhere.”

to him, communication was important. he loved to convey messages, whether through body language or spoken words. the lyrics he wrote and the choreography he danced to, was few of the many ways he did so. he loved to express himself. it’s one of the things the drew you to him in the first place.

“you’ll be fine,” you reached forward to stroke his hair. “you’re making progress, and that’s all that matters.”

“thank you, love.” he leaned in to give you a quick kiss on the lips. he slid off the bed and onto his feet, the satin sheets rustling in the process. “i have to take a shower.”

“go ahead, no one’s stopping you.” you let out a light laugh as you watched him scramble clumsily to the bathroom.

“wanna join me?” he questioned, head poking out from the double doors of the en suite bathroom, light brown hair bouncing in excitement. his eyes twinkled with intent and his eyebrows were slightly raised, hinting at something filthy.

at that you laughed, loud and boisterous, at his attempt of getting you naked for him. “nice try.”

“oh, come on,” he threw his hands up.

“i’ve already showered,” you teased him.

“it was worth a shot,” he shrugged, lips forming a pout.

“hurry,” you rolled your eyes at him playfully. “don’t let your room service run cold.”

“in that case,” he shut the door mid-sentence. “i better hurry.”

moments later you heard the shrill screech of the faucet followed by the sound of gushing water. you laughed to yourself, shaking your head.

what a dork.

you realised that this was the taehyung you fell in love with. not the sensuous, fierce performer he was on stage. not V from bangtan, but kim taehyung from geochang.

kim taehyung, who you met in the first year of college at a café somewhere you didn’t remember. who helped you pick your collapsed textbooks which was the result of the clashing of your bodies. who then offered to buy you a drink. who you thought was an absolute cliché, but also someone who you never thought would have stuck with your infuriating self for the next six years.

back then, he was just a boy who had dreams larger than life.

today, he was part of one of the biggest boy groups in international pop culture.

day after day, you see him on the front covers of your favourite magazines, on news articles, on advertisements.

you were enticed each time you saw his face on the screens of buildings on your way to work. but you were also disappointed because you were selfish.

you thought you could have him to yourself. as much as you told yourself that you could, you always knew in the back of your mind, ever since you met him, that it’ll never happen. so you had to just live with it.

he was just a trainee when you first met him, but you immediately knew this boy, quirky and all, was going to make it huge one day, if not soon.

and he did.

and you couldn’t be any prouder than you already were.

your thoughts were interrupted by a high-pitched scream.

no, it wasn’t a scream.

it was kim taehyung singing in the shower.

taglist: @minjiyeonnie

chapter 2 link here

[tangyyyy]

Bon, parce que je te connais et que tu vas me faire un truc ultra angst tu vas te faire pardonner avec du pure fluff avec cet autre prompt^^ , Fluff numéro 7 “wait, no, don’t take kissing away from me.”

Here it is !!!! :D

My second dads!elu one shot ! Many many thanks @juuuunaaaaoooo, you made me write again !

Guys, you can request any prompts anytime in my box, really… ;)

Anyway… I hope you’ll enjoy this one !

Worst parents ever

Lucas is in a hurry. The rain began to fall on the streets of Paris and the young man has no umbrella. Walking on Boulevard Barbès, Lucas tries to bury the baguette he just bought under his coat, nobody likes wet bread. A fast-moving car passes by him and, driving in a puddle of dirty water, splashes his jeans. “Damn…” he grumbles, fastening his pace a little more.

Night has fallen on Paris and the Christmas decorations shine brightly. Lucas has never been a great fan of the holiday season. Especially Christmas. The endless family dinners, the fake kindness and the crappy gifts of his old aunts? No thanks, not for him. Eliott, on the other hand, loves Christmas. Lucas remembers, nostalgic, of their very first Christmas together, many years ago. Offended to learn that Lucas didn’t like this great tradition, Eliott had done everything he could to make this evening unforgettable. Thanks to his many talents, both physical and artistic, he succeded, although Lucas has always refused to admit it. He smiles. After a busy day of work, he can’t wait to find his man and their daughter.

Éléonore, said Nour, is now two and a half, almost three. Lucas often looks at her and can’t repress a whiff of anxiety at the idea that she can grow up so fast. His thin blonde hair leaves place, for some months, to thick chestnut hair that Lucas and Eliott have the greatest difficulty to style. On his little nose, many small freckles have appeared. Only his big deep blue eyes like Lucas’ don’t seem to change. Now capable of the most spectacular acrobatics, she’s also a talkative little girl with an overflowing imagination, just like Eliott. Lucas is sure of this and can say, objectively, that their daughter is the most beautiful person in the world.

Going home every evening to his apartment that he loves so much, coming back to his lover and his daughter… He was so happy! Once in front of the big massive wood door, Lucas pushes it and come inside. Automatically, he puts his keys in the small box placed on the entrance furniture, takes off his shoes, leaves his soaked coat that hangs on the coat rack and walks in the narrow corridor, the baguette unscathed by any trace of rain in his hand. A smell of tomatoes, thyme and rosemary tickles his nostrils. Tomato in the middle of December? Lucas knows that Eliott can be very creative in kitchen but making such an affront to seasonal vegetables? No it’s not in his habits…

Lucas finds Eliott in the kitchen, busy over the sink, washing a green salad. Looking around him, Lucas doesn’t see Éléonore. No doubt she must be playing alone in her room with her many toys as it happens to her more and more often…

“It smells good.” Lucas say, smiling.

Eliott, who didn’t hear his manwalking behind his back, jumps and put a hand on his pounding heart.

"Damn Lucas, you scared me…”

Lucas laughs and puts a little kiss on Eliott’s cheek before placing the baguette on the worktop.

“What are you doing?” He asks, curiously, as he sits on one of the high bar stools near the sink.

"I had no idea so I warm a jar of ratatouille.” Eliott replies by refocusing on the salad.

“Mmmh… good idea!”

Last summer Lucas’ mother had gave them several jars of fresh ratatouille, telling them that during the cold and long winter months, they could at least have some sun in their plates. Smelling the scent of Mediterranean vegetables bursting with sun and olive oil, Lucas licks his lips in advance. Éléonore, too, loves the ratatouille of her grandmother. She, who, however, begins to sulk the vegetables for a few weeks, makes an exception for the famous Mamie Marie’s Ratatouille.

“You had a good day?” Lucas asks, absently looking at Eliott bustling around the salad.

"Meeting, meeting, meeting and… Meeting! We’re on a new project. It’s going to be great but it’s hyper ambitious so there’s a thousand things to see upstream of the real…

-Oh ok, cool.” Visibly immersed in his own mind, Lucas now stares at a tiny gnat drowning in the sink full of water.

"And yours?

-Yes, yes, it’s been okay…” He answers absentmindly, staring at the gnat.

Silence falls in the kitchen. Drops of water come to the windows and the wind rises almost conceals the noises of the Parisian traffic. Only Eliott continues to work on the preparation of the meal, Lucas remains motionless near the sink.

Finally, Lucas frowns and redirects his focus to Eliott, now busy taking out the plates and cutlery of the small wooden furniture on his right.

“It means that you’ll spend a lot of time with Amélie…

-Well yes, she’s the pre-real workload so yeah indeed, I’m going to work a lot with her. Why?

-Just to know…” Lucas scowls, crosses his arms against his chest and forces himself to think of something else.

Knowing very well why Lucas asks such a question, Eliott bites his cheek, forcing himself not to smirk. Nevertheless he’s not decided to let such an opportunity to make fun of his lover. For years Eliott has been working with Amelie, Lucas has always been jealous of the young woman. It’s true that Amelie is an attractive woman who has never tried to hide, in the past, the attraction she felt and still feels for Eliott. But he’s always very clear with her. Although Eliott can’t be more faithful to Lucas, the young man can’t help but worry. Diyng of jealousy to know that Eliott is gonna spend most of his time with this very beautiful and clever artist, Lucas can’t think straight anymore.

Eliott, pretending to clean the sink a little more, discreetly walked to Lucas.

"Besides… Speaking of Amélie… Today she showed us the new shoes she bought, really high heels, Louboutin. Wow, it makes her legs beautiful, you should see that… Aoutch!”

Lucas just kicked him.

“Stop it already!”

Eliott now laughs openly.

“Stop what?!

-I don’t fucking care about Amélie’s legs!

-You should, she’s beautiful! And then her little dress…

-For fuck’s sake!”

Raging and crimson cheeks of shame, Lucas punches Eliott’s shoulder. The latter, far from being offended, laughs again and walked closer.

“You know I don’t like that girl and you play with it!” Lucas complains, folding his arms back and lowering his head sulkily.

"Sorry, sorry… I can’t help it!” Eliott say, wiping a small tear of laughter at the corner of his eye.

He tries to take him in his arms but Lucas is struggling.

"You’re just a fucking sadist!”

Eliott laughs again and finally settles down. He puts a soft, gentle hand on Lucas’ cheek, encouraging him to look up at him.

“I’m sorry, but… I can’t believe you’re still so jealous. Even after more than ten years, the house, Nour, all that…

-Yeah I know it’s ridiculous… ” Lucas breathes, biting his lip.

“No it’s not ridiculous, it’s… quite flattering actually.” Eliott smiles. "But once again… You’re the only one who counts, you know it.”

Lucas smiles as well, sighs and relax his muscles. His hands rest on Eliott’s hips.

“I know…

-And then you have nothing to envy to Amélie.

-Really?

-Really.”

Lucas, still sitting on the bar stool, legs apart to accommodate Eliott closer to his body, raises his eyebrows.

“She’s one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen though.

"Yeah well…” Says Eliott unconvincingly. “Allow me anyway to put your tastes about women in question.” As Lucas prepares to retort, his man keeps talking. "She’s too tall… My type is smaller people…” He finished with a mocking smile.

"I’m not that small!” Lucas complains.

"Who tells you that you’re my type?

-You jerk!”

As Lucas begins to slap Eliott’s abs with his fists, he grabs his face with his hands and puts his lips on his.

“I love you Lucas…” he whispers between two kisses.

“I love you too, bastard…” Lucas answers.

The two men kiss each other. Eliott’s hands are set in Lucas’ neck. The latter grabs the bottom of his husband’s tee-shirt and strokes his bare stomach. Their tongues touch and play together. Eliott’s hands move up in his hair pulling them slightly. Lucas scratches his thin skin lightly, stroking his belly button and his ribs. Deep in his throat, Eliott lets out a small sigh of ease, without getting away from the mouth of Lucas. It’s the latter, at this sound, which moves away slightly, he licks his red and swollen lips, he rests his hands on his knees. Eliott frowns and looks sulky.

“Wait, no, don’t take kissing away from me.” He says, trying to take him back to him.

Lucas smiles. Yes, of course, he would love to keep kissing him, but at the same moment, a whole other preoccupation is coming to his mind.

"If we don’t stop right now, I’m not sure I could control myself for a long time…”

Eliott cuts him off by sticking his pelvis to his.

“I like that…” He moans close to his ear.

“I think it’s more reasonable to wait for Nour to be sleeping Babe…” Lucas smiles again, not finding the strength to walk away.

Hearing his daughter’s name, Eliott sighs, puts his forearms on Lucas’ shoulders and displays a look of deep reflection.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right…” He admits in a half smile. “It would be a shame to traumatise her for the rest of her life… By the way, where is she? That’s it, it’s teenage time? She doesn’t even want to come and kiss her father after a hard day at the childcare centre?” Eliott asks, glancing down the corridor to the bedrooms.

Lucas raises his eyebrows, losing his bright smile. He moves a little further and looks Eliott straight in the eyes.

"You’re joking right?” He asks his husband.

Eliott, not understanding what Lucas means, rising in turn a mocking eyebrow.

"Yes, Lu’, it’s a joke. I don’t seriously think that our two-and-a-half year old girl is already in her teens…

-No, I mean… She’s playing in her room right?

-Well yeah, I guess.

-Eliott…”

The two men look at each other, the same expression scandalised on their two faces. The situation seems to clear suddenly for one as for the other.

“Did you get her at the childcare center when you went out of work?” Lucas asks.

"No! It was you who were supposed to pick her up on the way back! You didn’t do it?

-No I didn’t!”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…” Understanding that their daughter is not at home as expected, Eliott rushes to the other end of the living room, to his phone that he had put there an hour or two ago.

“6 missed calls from the center!” He shouts, panicked.

"They tried to call me too!” Lucas answers from the small entrance where he went to get his coat in which he had buried his own phone.

Pacing up and down in the living room, the phone sticked to his ear, Eliott calls back the childcare center. Lucas joins him, collapses on one of the chairs, takes his head in his hands, nerves alive, succumbing to the stress of such a situation.

"Hello… Yes, I’m Éléonore’s father.” Eliott introduces himself, his worried eyes staring into Lucas’ anxious ones. "I’m really sorry, there was a misunderstanding and… Yes, yes, very well, thank you. Sorry again, we… We just… I know… Yes… We’re coming right now, sorry, we’ll be there in five-ten minutes.”

Coming out of the house with Eliott, Lucas doesn’t mind the rain anymore. In a big hurry, the two men walked fast to the childcare center.

“Fuck! We spoke about it yesterday! It was you who had to go and catch her!” Lucas yells, already out of breath.

"No no no! It was you who was supposed to come home with her!

-But that makes no sense! It’s you who came home first!

-Yes but the center is on your way, not mine!”

The two men remains silent, each convinced to be right.

After a little while, Lucas lowers his head and burries his hands in his coat.

“Damn… We’re the worst parents ever…” he said in a sad and shameful tone.

“Don’t say that.” Eliott answers without looking at him or slowing down.

"But we’re not even fucking able to decide properly who’s supposed to care about our daughter at the childcare cen…”

-Shut up!“

Lucas is guilt-ridden. Honestly and in theory, he knows very well that he overreacts. Éléonore is perfectly safe at the childcare center, they’re only late for an hour and then mistakes can happen from time to time… But he can’t help himself. How could they forget their own daughter? Worse still, how did they do to not realise earlier that the little girl wasn’t in the house? And if she hadn’t been to the childcare center, what if a stranger had come to get her? What if, what if … Before Éléonore came into his world, Lucas was the first to make fun of all those parents feeling guilty for the slightest mistake about their offspring. And now, he and Eliott find themselves in the same situation… What a joke!

Eliott pushes the door of the childcare center and introduces himself to one of the childcare worker at the entrance. On his heels, Lucas sees Éléonore playing quietly alone with small wooden cubes. Not caring a lot about the worker, he breaks off quickly, takes off his shoes and rushes alongside the little girl on the playthings. He crouches down and takes her in his arms.

"Oh sorry… Sorry babygirl…” He holds her tight and kisses her hair. “We’re here.”

Obviously the little girl doesn’t seem to have realised that her two dads had forgotten to pick her up. Lucas puts his hands under her armpits, places her against his chest and keeps her close to him while standing up. “Come on, let’s go home.”

Letting herself be carried into the entrance, the little girl sees Eliott in great discussion with the childcare worker. Visibly surprised to see that her both of her dads have exceptionally come to get her, Eleanor made a funny face.

“Papa?

-Yes, see? We came both! We really wanted to see you!”

Lucas stops near Eliott. The latter turns to his husband and daughter, smiles and lays a kiss on the little girl’s round cheek.

“Hi you. How are you?

-Good!

-What did you do today?

-I did the painting!” The girl answers playfully, proudly showing her two little hands on which there are still some traces of red paint.

Lucas turns to the woman.

“We’re really sorry, I don’t even understand what happened…

-Oh do not worry too much! As I said to your husband, this can happen to everyone.

-No but really, sorry…

-Listen, you’re not the first to whom it happens and you wont be the last, believe my long experience.”

Lucas smiles at her sheepishly, absently stroking his daughter’s hair.

“And then…” Keeps saying the woman. “It’s a pretty good thing!”

At these words, the two men raise their eyebrows.

“It means that your world doesn’t revolve around Éléonore only. That’s a good thing! She needs to see that everything is not just working for her only, that she’s not the center of the whole world, especially at that age. There are times when we don’t necessarily think about our children, it’s pretty healthy actually.”

Lucas bites his cheek, thinking back to what they were just doing to forget their own daughter. Seeking to hide his embarrassment, he drops the little girl on the ground so that she can get her shoes in the small lockers near the entrance. Eliott bends down and helps her to put on her shoes.

Seeing two other pairs of shoes in the lockers, Lucas looks up at the woman.

“There are still children?

-We don’t close until late, around 9:30 pm, for parents who have atypical schedules.”

Lucas nods before putting on his own shoes.

Once Éléonore has put on her thick coat, Eliott takes her in his arms. The little girl frowns and tries to struggle.

“Nooo! I want to walk!!” She gasped. Eliott doesn’t let her go and shakes his head.

"Sorry kitten but it’s raining a lot and…” He glances at Lucas. The latter shrugs. “And as we left the house quickly, we forgot to take an umbrella so we will walk very quickly to not get wet.”

Lucas bites his cheek again. They didn’t even think of sheltering their daughter from the rain… really, they fucked up everything today! The shrill voice of the little girl draws him from his dark thoughts.

“Will you run?” She asks Eliott. Éléonore loves when Eliott carries her on his back while running at full speed, it’s even one of her favourite activities. His father laughs.

"Of course! Everything you want tonight Mademoiselle Lallemant.” He replies, kissing her forehead.

His coat on, Lucas turns to the woman, standing there, watching them tenderly.

"Well… We’ll go now. Thank you very much and sorry again for all that.

-Do not worry, not a big problem, really. Next time make sure to keep your phones with you.” She answers with a smile.

"It wont happen again.” Lucas adds, shaking her hand. "Nour, you say goodbye?

-Goodbye!” Nour yells, still in Eliott’s arms, waving her hand to the woman.

"See you tomorrow sweethart.” She greets her back, giving her a small wink.

On the way back, Lucas looks in front of him, Eliott running in the rain, holding Éléonore firmly in his arms. The little girl laughs loudly. Lucas could never get tired of this laugh for sure.

Back home, while Eliott kneels in the small entrance, helping their daughter to get rid of her coat and shoes, a burning smell suddenly rises to Lucas’ nostril.

"Oh fuck!” He rushes into the kitchen. In the saucepan, the ratatouille is totally burnt and lets escape a blackish smoke. With a quick gesture, he grabs the pan and puts it in the sink before running the water.

"Damn fucking shit… That must be a fucking joke…” Lucas takes his head in his hands. “We make everything mess!” He slaps his forehead with the palm of one of his hands.

He feels so guilty to not being able to do anything right. He would like to be that perfect, caring, organised father, but deep down, tonight, he still feels like a teenager who has trouble growing up. He knows it’s fleeting, he’s aware that most of the time things don’t go so bad but… Tonight is too much…

On his back, he feels Eliott taking him in his arms. The man puts his hands on his stomach, puts his head on his shoulder and hugs him, his chest stucked to Lucas’ back.

"It’s okay…” he whispers in his ear.

“But Eli, look, we’re fucking pathetic…” Lucas complains, thinking back to the forgetting of their own daughter and their house full of an unpleasant burning smell. He begins to run out of air and feels his belly knot. Eliott moves slightly away to give him room to turn around.

“Hey, hey, calm down, Lucas… look at me. Look at me…”

Lucas turns around and stares into the calm and reassuring eyes of his man.

“Nour’s perfectly fine, she’s here, with us. And about the ratatouille… It doesn’t matter at all. It’s nothing… ” He told him confidently. Lucas nods, soothed by the sound of Eliott’s voice.

“What are we eating then?” He asks in a weak voice.

Eliott frowns and thinks.

“Hmmm… we can order a pizza!” Leaving Lucas’ eyes, he turns towards the living room in the direction of Éléonore, who is busy telling the contents of her day to one of her stuffed toys, sitting on the ground at the foot of the Christmas tree. "Nour… Do you like pizza?”

The little girl raises her big blue eyes towards her father. She doesn’t answer anything, obviously not understanding what Eliott is asking to her.

“Pizza… You know, the round good thing with other stuff on it…”

The little girl frowns before refocusing on her stuffed toy. Obviously what her father tells her, not only does she not understand it but she doesn’t really care about it either.

“Oh my God…” Eliott blows tragically, a hint of indignation in his voice.

“What?” Lucas asks.

"Our own daughter has never tasted pizza in her whole life…” He says, eyes round, slowly turning to his husband.

“Well… Uh yeah… Maybe not with us but wi…

-That’s the real shame, Lucas! What unworthy fathers we are!” He exclaims in a perfect dramaqueen’s impersonation. "We have to fix this right now!” He adds, grabbing his phone to call their favourite pizzeria.

A smile on his lips, Lucas looks at him, his own blue eyes filled with unspeakable tenderness.

A little later in the evening, Eliott and Lucas are settled in the couch. Éléonore is sitting between them. Just out of the bath, her hair is still wet and her skin smells like baby soap. In her hand, she holds a small slice of pizza she carries to her mouth, already smeared with tomato sauce. Her two dads watch her eatting with appetite.

"So? You like pizza?” Lucas asks her smiling.

The little girl just nods, too busy eating her new favourite dish to answer properly to her own father.

Lucas sighs of ease, keeps smiling and lets himself go against the back of the couch, a hand resting on his daughter’s back. He looks at the ceiling thoughtfully. Eliott prefers not to waste time and takes a large slice of pizza.

"You know what?”

Eliott turns to him, traces of tomato sauce at the corners of his mouth, just like their daughter. At this sight, Lucas laughs.

"I think we’re not so bad fathers…” Lucas says.

“Of course we’re not.” Eliott replies.

“We forget our daughter at the childcare center, we almost burn our kitchen, we don’t eat at the table but on the couch by putting crumbs everywhere but…” He pauses, watching Éléonore and Eliott. “We’re happy like that.” He finished with a smile.

"And that’s what counts.” Adds Eliott, his mouth full of pizza.

"Yeah, that’s what counts…”.

[the-observant-frisbeetarian]

Chapter 1 - Venus et Éclair

La Patisserie de la Rose by George deValier

CHAPTER ONE Venus et Éclair

.

It was a dull, grey morning as Matthew walked briskly down the dull, grey street. It was the ninth morning he had walked to work down this very street, every one the same, every one dull and grey. Matthew was used to being passed over and unnoticed, but in this new, huge city, he felt completely invisible. This place was too large and unfriendly: hundreds of people hurrying past with their eyes on the ground, practically identical in their grey suits with their grey expressions. Grey buildings lined both sides of the street; grey shops and businesses all blended together. And it seemed that every day the sky overhead was dark with the promise of rain. Matthew clenched his hand around his briefcase, clenched his teeth as the teeming crowd pushed past him unseeing. At least his little apartment was not far from his large office block, so this dull, grey, every-morning walk did not take long.

It was a good opportunity, they had said. A promotion to a new position in the big city. And Matthew had never been good at confrontation, so he had simply said thank you, packed up his dull little life, and moved across the country to become another number cruncher lost in a faceless company. He had been here two weeks now, but no one in his office even knew his name yet. He was pretty sure no one even knew what he did.

Matthew suddenly had to dodge out the way of a man not watching where he was going. Just as he fell against a shop wall to avoid a head-on collision, it began raining heavily. Matthew groaned to himself. This day was starting even better than usual.

Matthew put his briefcase over his head and began to look for cover. His eyes darted along the street, looking for an awning or a ledge or any kind of shelter from the pelting rain. And then, like a bright burst of colour exploding into this grey morning, his gaze fell on the most colourful little shop window he had ever seen. He took a few steps closer, fascinated. Variously shaped and coloured cakes and pastries sat arranged like an art exhibit on white-clothed tables and silver tiers: little fruit tarts, pies topped with berries, plates of red and pink iced biscuits, white dusted muffins, cupcakes of every colour of the rainbow. Matthew almost forgot the rain as he stared at the visual feast, his mouth starting to water, his eyes drinking in the explosion of colour. But he quickly began to shiver, realised the rain was soaking through his clothes, and darted into the shop.

A cheerful little bell announced his arrival as the warmth of the place engulfed Matthew immediately. Inside, the burst of colour was even more intense, along with the sweet, delightful scent of melted chocolate and baking bread. The nostalgic sound of Edith Piaf's unmistakable voice flowed softly through the shop; elegantly framed black and white photographs of Parisian landmarks decorated the walls. A glass counter ran across the back of the room, separating the front of the small shop – the word 'cosy' sprang to mind - from a little serving area behind. Matthew felt strangely comfortable in here; oddly at ease as he looked around at the side shelves of even more exquisitely lovely sweets and pastries. He had already eaten breakfast – pancakes with maple syrup and a café latte at 7am sharp, the same as every morning – but he felt suddenly famished.

"Bonjour, monsieur!" Matthew looked up at the voice. The man behind the counter blinked as Matthew turned, his eyes widened, and he looked Matthew up and down. "Well, bonjour!" he said again, emphasising the second part of the word, then leant forward on the counter and smiled brightly. He had wavy blond shoulder-length hair and slight facial stubble on his handsome face, and was dressed in jeans and a flour-dusted apron. And there was something about the way he smiled, the way he leant easily on the counter, the way his dancing blue eyes ran across Matthew's body – Matthew felt himself blushing red, without really knowing why.

"Bonjour," Matthew responded, somewhat hesitantly.

"Can I give you a… hand, by any chance?" Matthew had to pause and wonder whether the blond baker had actually meant it to sound like that. The man winked and Matthew's eyebrows shot up. Oh. He had.

"No, thank you. It's just…" Matthew looked down at himself, his suit dripping rain onto the floor. He was creating puddles all over the shop. "Well, it started raining, and I didn't want to get wet, but… well, it looks like I have anyway, doesn't it. I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to drench your floor. I'll just go."

"No!" The man said it so sincerely that Matthew stopped immediately. "No, please," the man continued, softer. "Stay there one moment."

Matthew waited, a little unsure, as the baker disappeared out the back door. He reappeared a moment later with a white, fluffy towel in his hands, then walked through a gap in the counter by the wall and handed the towel to Matthew. Matthew smiled carefully as he took it.

"Thank you," said Matthew as he placed his briefcase down and dried his hair, feeling a little awkward at using this stranger's towel. Now that he was so close, Matthew could see that the baker stood at an equal height to his own, those dancing blue eyes still travelling up and down. He smelt like caramel and spun sugar. And why did he keep looking at him like that? Like he was almost amused, his eyebrows raised and his lips curled upwards.

"But not at all. You are on your way to work?" The man's voice was heavily accented. He could possibly be from Quebec, but something about him seemed undeniably French.

"Yes," replied Matthew. "Or I was, before the rain caught me."

The man tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Let me guess. The suit tells me… investment banker?"

Matthew exhaled sharply in amusement. "Close. Accountant."

The man wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Oh, I do apologise." Matthew rolled his eyes and tried not to laugh. "But please, forgive my rudeness. My name is Francis. Welcome to La Patisserie de la Rose!" Francis held his hand out and Matthew took it in a firm handshake. Francis' hands were smooth with flour.

"Thank you. I'm Matthew." Matthew quickly found himself fascinated by those dancing blue eyes. Just what was going on here? This man certainly seemed interested in him. But then maybe he introduced himself to all his customers like this. "Your patisserie is… well, it's amazing. Do you make all these yourself?"

Francis nodded slightly, his expression pleased and proud. "Every one, my dear. I am an artiste, and these are my humble creations."

"They're incredible," said Matthew honestly, his eyes falling on a fully formed and intricately decorated gingerbread house, complete with marshmallow windows and liquorice latticework and even a chocolate chimney. "I can't believe I've never noticed this place before, and I walk past every day. Of course, I've only been in town two weeks." He realised too late that Francis had called him 'my dear' and felt just a little awkward again. But then, Francis seemed like the type of man who could get away with using endearments like that with virtual strangers. Or the type of man who simply didn't care.

"Two weeks, hmm? That makes sense. If you had been in before, I surely would have remembered."

No, he definitely seemed interested. Matthew had to wonder at the statement. He was not the type of person people remembered. He was not the type of person who was flirted with by complete strangers, either. Beneath the awkwardness and slight confusion, Matthew was also starting to feel strangely flattered.

"So exactly where on earth did you drop in from?" continued Francis easily.

"Just a little town up north. You wouldn't have heard of it… no one has. I must admit, I'm not used to a city this big."

"This is nothing to Paris, my dear." Francis pronounced it the French way, and Matthew nodded to himself. French – of course.

"Paris? I wondered about the accent."

Francis sighed dramatically. "Oui, Paris, the city of my heart, and where I perfected my trade."

Matthew looked over a little table display of exquisitely embellished red velvet cupcakes, then back at Francis with a tiny, uncertain smile. "You are very talented." Matthew wasn't sure if he was flirting back, and wasn't sure if he wanted to. It was definitely not something he was used to.

"You are too kind to say so. But my artwork is not just for looking, Mathieu. Tell me." Francis' blue eyes twinkled playfully. "How can I tempt you this morning?"

Matthew tightened his grip on the towel. How did Francis make those innocent words sound so – well – un-innocent? Matthew swallowed and stammered. He had quickly reached the limits of his flirting ability. "Uh… well, I don't really know…"

Francis smirked and beckoned him with a finger before walking back to the counter. Matthew followed, slightly dazed, his eyes travelling downwards of their own accord. The way Francis walked - the phrase 'sex on legs' immediately entered Matthew's mind, and he mentally slapped himself for thinking something so ridiculous. He placed the towel down on a stool by the counter. Francis reached into the glass cabinet, pulled out a tray of bite-sized desserts, and laid them on the counter. Matthew studied them closely. Perfectly smooth, round, white meringues topped with little red berry tips. Matthew gasped when he realised what they were. "Oh!"

"My own version of the famous Nipples of Venus," said Francis, grinning wickedly. "Or, if you prefer, I have these…" Francis reached again into the cabinet, bringing out another tray of unusually shaped desserts, and laid them beside the meringues with a flourish. Matthew recognised immediately what these were. The miniature log éclairs had two little chocolate orbs attached at one end, and a darkened little sculpted end at the other.

"Oh!" said Matthew again, feeling his cheeks burn bright red. He had to stop himself putting a hand to his mouth, determined not to look like some sort of blushing schoolgirl. What sort of man made pastries like these? He forced himself to look directly at Francis. "Please tell me they're not cream-filled."

Francis laughed lightly, then gestured dramatically over the two trays. "So, Mathieu. Which do you prefer?"

Matthew's eyes went wide and his mouth almost fell open. Surely, he couldn't be asking… Francis winked. Oh. He was asking. The room felt suddenly very hot, despite Matthew's wet clothes. Well. This was one way to ask a sensitive question… Matthew took a deep breath, told himself to man up, and very deliberately reached out and picked up one of the little éclairs. Francis' grin widened. He looked positively thrilled. Matthew suddenly did not know what to do with his hands, with his eyes. Francis looked pointedly at the éclair in Matthew's hand and inclined his head slightly.

"Please. Tell me what you think."

And now came the dilemma of actually eating a pastry shaped like a penis in front of a man he'd just met. Matthew wasn't quite sure if there was a correct manner to do such a thing. But he certainly wasn't about to back down now, so he just met Francis' gaze evenly, and placed the éclair in his mouth. And then he forgot to feel awkward, or embarrassed, or any of it. Because this was the most amazing thing he had ever tasted. The hard chocolate layer cracked between his teeth and gave way to a silky, white chocolate centre that melted on his tongue. The contrast of textures played on his senses, the touch and smell and incredible taste of it; the brief richness of dark cocoa, the sweet burst of flavoured cream, the lingering lightness of sugar-dusted pastry. Matthew couldn't stop his eyes fluttering closed, the final taste like an explosion on his taste buds, and he swallowed almost regretfully. His fingers lingered on his mouth and he drew his bottom lip between his teeth, took a deep breath and sighed. "Oh, wow."

Francis laughed breathily and Matthew's eyes flew open. "Was it good for you?" asked Francis, his eyes slightly lowered, his cheeks just the tiniest bit darker.

"Wow," said Matthew again, unthinkingly. He had never tasted anything like that in his life. "That was the most incredible thing I've ever had in my mouth."

Francis looked quite self-satisfied. "I hear that a lot."

Matthew dropped his hand and laughed shakily. What a completely embarrassing, new, strange, amazing situation. "Uh, I mean... I'll take a dozen."

Francis shook his head and folded his arms. "No."

Matthew blinked his wide eyes, taken aback. "No?"

"No. I could not stand to have you make such a display without me there to watch. It would be a betrayal, darling." Matthew raised an eyebrow. Darling, now? "If you want more…" Francis' expression twisted deviously, "You'll just have to come back." Matthew wasn't sure whether to feel flattered or just really annoyed. He glanced back down at the plate of pastries, but Francis took it away and placed it back under the glass. "Uh-uh. I think I shall allow you… one a day, yes?"

"You can't do that!" said Matthew indignantly.

Francis smirked. "Oh, but I can, dear Mathieu. After all, I need some assurance that you will return to me, don't I?"

Despite his annoyance, Matthew felt a warm glow in his chest. Francis must really be interested in him to go to such elaborate lengths to see him again. Matthew studied the baker closely: his alluring smile and teasing expression, the seductive way he leant against the counter and gazed with heavy lidded eyes. Matthew realised that he wanted to see Francis again, too. He had never met anyone so brazen, so… intriguing. Matthew sighed and rolled his eyes in surrender. Francis grinned in triumph. "Fine. But it's terrible customer service. What do I owe you?" Francis frowned, and Matthew knew immediately he had said the wrong thing. He began to stammer an apology, but Francis just shook his head and clicked his tongue.

"Ever the accountant, no? Please, Mathieu." Francis placed a hand to his chest. "All I require in payment is the great pleasure of your company."

At the mention of his work, Matthew suddenly gasped. Oh, he had gotten so carried away… "Oh, no! I'm going to be late!"

"And such perfect timing. It has stopped raining."

Matthew jumped up and rushed for his briefcase. He looked out the window at the clearing skies and saw that Francis was right. "I'm so sorry, I have to dash! Oh no, and I've already been late twice this week… Um, thank you, Francis, and it was nice to meet you, and…" He turned back to see Francis resting his chin on his hand, smiling at him softly. Matthew immediately forgot the rest of his panicked rant.

"Tomorrow, yes? Until then." Francis waved his fingers lightly. "Au revoir, mon cher."

Matthew bit his lip, then smiled across the charming, bright little shop at the bold, captivating French baker. "Yes," he replied, nodding. "Tomorrow."

Matthew stepped out of the patisserie and, before taking off again down the street, glanced back at the door he had just walked out of. There was an intricate red rose carved into the wood. The entire patisserie was more like something from an enchanting little Parisian alley than this grey, industrial street where all the buildings looked the same and no one looked you in the eye. And yet, now, the dull, grey world seemed just a little bit brighter. Matthew spent the rest of the day thinking of Francis, of visiting the little patisserie again tomorrow. And Matthew realised, that for the first time in weeks, he was actually looking forward to something.

.

Next Chapter

Disclaimer: This story belongs to George deValier. Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya. I own nothing.

[investmart007]

PARIS | Chanel recreates Paris for couture show celebrating the city

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PARIS | Chanel recreates Paris for couture show celebrating the city

PARIS  — Paris — the City of Light, lovelocks and the Seine River— was the backdrop Tuesday in Chanel’s sublime couture collection that showed designer Karl Lagerfeld is still at the top of his game at 84.

Penelope Cruz, Pharrell Williams and Lily Allen applauded after the cinematic runway display in which the French fashion house painstaking recreated a Parisian cityscape — all inside the nave of the Grand Palais.

No detail was spared: from the padlocks on the famed Pont des Arts bridge to the surrounding riverside booksellers (with Chanel-themed literature), to thick city stones and the majestic domed French Academy.

But this fall-winter season, couture was the true star of the show. Here are some highlights from Tuesday’s collections.

CHANEL’S PARISIAN HEIGHTS Mirroring the nostalgic Parisian decor, Chanel’s 67 accomplished looks came in the colors of the city.

Light gray evoked zinc rooftops, almond green for historic building roofs, anthracite for roads and gold and silver — so said the program — for “reflections of the moon in the rippling Seine.”

Pinks and mauves reflected sunrise; black and deep navy, the night. White and beige captured the French capital’s annoyingly changeable weather.

The myriad interlocking crystal embroideries, meanwhile, were said to mirror cobblestones and netted tulle, embroidered with gold, evoked lovers’ padlocks on the Pont des Arts (that were famously banned by Paris authorities).

These poetical explanations were nice but unnecessary for a collection that didn’t need any gimmicks to impress. Lagerfeld raised the bar this season — and it was the inspired sleeve silhouette that did it.

Sleeves flapped and unfurled in a unique bell shape achieved thanks to an open zipper up the arm. It possessed a fresh sporty-meets-regal air.

The unfurling shape moved down the body into long split skirts with open panels at the sides, and another skirt underneath. Folded cuff boots furthered this unfurling dynamic, as the cuff opened out of the shoe stylishly — in black, white, gray or embroidered sequins. ___

LILY ALLEN ON FEMALE EMPOWERMENT British singer Lily Allen, who called Chanel’s couture “incredible” and sported new platinum tresses, also spoke about female empowerment to The Associated Press amid the Time’s Up and #MeToo movements.

The feminist 33-year-old said she has “impostor syndrome” regarding her fame and still finds it “hard to accept” being successful as a woman. She added: “maybe it’s a societal thing, or maybe it’s something we internalize from a young age.”

Allen also expressed skepticism about the effectiveness of online pro-women campaigns.

“There’s ‘Instagram empowerment’ and it’s not really very real … The more we become so focused on the visual aspect of women, we lose the value of everything else … it can’t be a hashtag thing,” she said. “I’d like to see more implementation of change and policy at government level.” ___

ALEXIS MABILLE’S ARTISTRY It was a mixed couture bag for Alexis Mabille.

The French designer stumbled at the start of his collection with several sheer lace looks that lacked originality. But later into the 47-piece display inside the chic Salle Pleyel concert hall he really found his mojo.

Off-kilter floor-length trapeze gowns with stripes were followed by dresses that opened up or fanned out dramatically at the chest — the focal point of his best designs.

A series of tiered tulle gowns with extreme-cinched waists — one in dark vanilla and another where colors subtly blended from azure-white to butter — were the work of a true artist.

By THOMAS ADAMSON , Associated Press

[thefinishpiece]

Paris From Space

|Prélude|

All the universe is breathless abandon.

Atoms entangling in a game of paradox—ceaseless here-and-there playfulness.

You see the skies soggy with storm, their careful cracks of vaporous ash across dark marsh.

You hear the pulse of pressure manifested, crushing and resonant. The dogs tremble and bark. The birds dangle in mid-flight, hanging on an unseen grid.

You smell the moisture—refreshing, cold. Sometimes you forget the world is water. Rain is a decent reminder.

You taste the mellow dread of waning nostalgia. Every passing day is further from a memory you once considered real.

But in hindsight, the fringes fading from view, the minced details of sensory lushness peeling away one by one—first, you forget the scent of it; then the flavors; then the sounds; then the appearances.

Someday you may even forget the feeling—the inextricable meaning of an experience that reasoned the memory extant in the first place.

You touch the surface of everything. A nervous glaze. The stitching of molecules costumed by your fragile perception, vainly convincing itself of every object’s difference and every texture subjective.

The truth—hidden as it always is—behind a curtain of illusion, saving your conscious fragility from being frightened by the position of matter in these rules of reality.

As you look on and wonder:

If everything is everything else, then what am I?

A composed ape. Poised against the frigid metal-legs of a balcony. Posing in a slumped grace, posturing yourself unconsciously to the gravity of detached comfort. Legs bent. Arms slung. Back sloped. If a raindrop fell on you at this current moment, you might collapse.

A loosely-lit cigarette between your lips. The tip of heat wavering on-and-off, totally uncaring if its trail of crumbling conflagration ever reaches its end. A stained sleeveless-shirt, crinkle-cut by use. Undergarments slacking, spotted, indented by under-sweat. Quite the sloppy ape you are.

You flick the unfinished cigarette. An indifferent attitude. Does this bundle of moody fluids have a name? Do you have a name? It is customary for you apes to award each other names. Such superficial symbols permit you to feign definition.

Emilia.

Emilia is done observing these constellations of atoms we refer to as life. She swallows one last gulp of drenched oxygen, then retreats from the patio-wilderness back into her modernist cave. The ape must sleep. And forget how all the universe is breathless abandon.

|Act Une|

Emilia nearly choked on her croissant.

“You killed yourself? How?” she garbled, removing rogue flakes from her mouth with a napkin.

Her friend initiated conversation in a peculiar way, explaining she had killed herself the night before, only to awake in the morning alive and disappointed.

“I took the pills Jamer gave me, settled myself in a nice bath, then drank a pinot all the way through, waiting.”

Her friend sipped an exotic tea. Emilia drowned the remaining flakes, stuck in her teeth like fleas on a dog, with a whip of bitter coffee. Her throat convulsed from the heat.

“And nothing happened?” she asked, politely.

Her friend shook her head, annoyed—not at Emilia, but at her situation.

“I remember a sudden nausea. Then I started vomiting blood and pastry, the pain in my stomach so strong. It was like being grinded alive. I thought it was it for me—I remember thinking it was the end. I made my peace with the universe and all that, but then… I wake up the next morning. No blood. No vomit. No pain. Even the bathtub had been drained!”

Emilia expressed awe at her friend’s predicament.

“So strange.” she mused.

“So strange!” Her friend parroted.

It was still gloomy weather and the café was hushed in midday reverence.

Emilia and her friend cooled in silence. Until a coddled boom whimpered through the streets. Followed by a glimpse of glow. The storm was barely holding it together. But the sun stood no chance as the clouds formed a fortress, a last-ditch effort to reclaim their tempest-might.

“Did you tell Jamer?” Emilia inquired.

Her friend sighed. “No, and I’m not going to bother. Fuck Jamer, he sold me a trick instead of a death.”

Emilia agreed. She struck a mental note of never buying toxins from Jamer again. Then her attention diverted to the concrete floor, where a party of ants convened upon a parcel of croissant Emilia had spat out after noticing a corner of it was burnt. Her discretion did not extend to the searing temperature of the coffee, however, which she drank freely despite the lesions forming in her throat. Her friend sighed again.

“I’ll try again tonight. I’ll do something else this time. If only I could get a gun.”

Wasps invaded the arthropod gathering, their bulbous black-yellow behinds sweeping through the tiny ants, rolling the little troopers over like butter on toast. It made Emilia sick to watch.

Her stomach roiled and fussed.

“Oh dear, sorry to intrude on your complaints Lulu, but I feel quite nauseous suddenly.” She pinched the sides of her fatty glands in disgust and boredom.

Lulu nodded, a friend quite understanding. “Shall we take a walk? Refresh ourselves?”

Emilia and Lulu left the café and followed the Parisian street.

A peculiar aether presented itself. Oxygen was languorous. Mist curled between the cement and plastic altars of commerce, down alleyways to hideaways, elapsing the vestibules of vanity where so many spend so much to hide themselves away in cosmetic disguises and fabricated costumes. Their artifice exhibited in the store-windows on mannequins that appear more real and fashionable than them themselves.

Emilia thought it was amusing how new things pretended to be while erected upon the platforms of old. Shops stood where castles once did. Cafés in the place of cathedrals. Roads once medieval morphed modern, the only remnants of design in the curving sewer crates and occasional decorative gargoyle, perched upon a prosthetic height like skeletons bolted by metal supports in a museum. Alive in false motion. The pretense of being displayed.

Emilia, curiously, swayed down the sidewalk, her steps careful and airy. It was the respectful thing to do, she considered, for how else is one supposed to walk through a graveyard? If not avoidant of others’ peaceful beds and nostalgic crypts.

She looked up at a street-sign, which was welded unto a steel-beam older than anything else on the street, and she smiled at how it could still find usefulness even in the ages after its inception.

“We walk the same place as they did three-hundred years ago.” Emilia mentioned. But Lulu ignored it, fascinated by the passing montage of jewelry and clothing. “No, you’re right. We don’t. This is only a replica city.” Emilia muttered, defeated.

“I’m thinking—should I just jump off a roof somewhere? Perhaps a church or skyscraper. Maybe I’ll climb to the top of Eiffel and leap—no, no, they have gates for that, don’t they? Of course, I’m sure I’m not the first to think of it.”

Lulu mused on. Emilia encouraged her friend, examining the merits of her plan.

“I don’t know how effective that would be. What if, after jumping off, you suddenly grow wings and take flight? Then you’ll feel foolish.”

Her friend snickered, “Then I’ll crash myself to the ground! Or maybe I’ll fly higher, to that level where the atmosphere folds unto itself, and let myself be crushed by a blanket of gravity.”

“A remarkable idea! But now where do you get wings?” Emilia wondered.

Her friend sighed, adjusting the grief on her face. “All of this talk of failure is ruining my mood. Sorry to disparage you today. I should be more grateful to have a friend like you, Emilia!”

Lulu embraced Emilia. Her friend’s hair was scented in tones of tangerine, flecking through bits and pieces of minted beach. Emilia sniffed deeply—she wished to never end the cuddle, so she could sniff this citrus dream forever. But Lulu, first to grip, was also the first to pull back. They continued on.

Along their path, a carious fiend, whom could barely speak, adorned in leftovers.

“Spare a penny? Just a penny!” he beseeched any who would listen.

Passersby passed by, either deaf or deferent. But when Emilia and her friend came by his way, he bowed, tingling from starvation.

“Excuse me Misses, but I must say you are both the most beautiful angels I’ve ever seen in this godforsaken city. Please tell me—I’ve heard rumors—I’ve heard we are on Mars now? Is it true? Did mankind send some of its own to claim the red oasis as ours? Oh, I’ve tried to see them. I look up at it every night, hoping to see. Tell me what I see is what it be?”

Emilia and Lulu both stared at the sky, then each other, then the fiend, who was gazing upward, a wistfulness dripping from his eye, plopping to the ground in weak rain.

“I imagine them up there, looking back at us. I bet they don’t cry; they don’t miss us. They look back at this garbage mess of hideous rock and wicked ocean, thinking we deserve to be left behind. They probably look out to the cosmic horizon, where our galaxy holds hands with God, and thinks the summation of Mankind is calculated in the stars and the stars alone.”

Emilia quivered. The beggar fiend was beginning to affect her.

His face collapsed. He heaved in. Let it out. “I don’t think we were born here. I think we plummeted here from somewhere beyond. This is not our planet. This is not our destiny.”

Emilia fumbled through her pockets and scrounged up some meager change. It wasn’t enough for her, but it was enough for him. When she handed it to him, she spoke, “We’re there. Those who are, I hear they’re preparing everything for us. We won’t be left behind, I promise. They’re coming back for the rest of us.”

The beggar grinned and thanked her, quaking in appreciation. “Oh, you’re so kind! You wondrous angel! So kind. God crafted you especially, I can tell. I’d like to believe you, too. But angel, you know how we humans are. We’ll sooner see the child of God return than for those who’ve left us to come back for us.”

Emilia saddened. The beggar disappeared, a puff of lost hope.

Lulu nudged her. “Come on, just down over here is Saladin’s place. He may be able to help me.”

Her friend strolled forward. Emilia took her arm and dabbed herself dry, taking one last peek toward the sky, in vain vehemence. If only he knew it was all still the same, even up there. Still just as boring, but more red.

On the stoop, a figure in prescience rose to greet them. He had a habit of always looking around, as if always being watched, or suspecting someone of always trying to catch him.

“Salaam. Salaam. You here for the Wise?” he greeted Emilia and Lulu individually. He recognized Lulu.

Emilia was intrigued. She heard her friend speak of Saladin before, many times, but had never met him. Lulu was comfortable, if not a smidge annoyed, rushing through pleasantries to get straight to business. The weight of life was one she was done carrying.

“Omar, I wish to speak to Saladin. Is he here?”

She pointed at the building behind Omar, a destitute stack of rooms, hidden in sharpened architecture and a sallow-salmon shade. Omar replied, “Yes he is. He has time for you. What is your friend’s name?”

Omar motioned toward Emilia. How bizarre it was to be referred to as the friend for once. Emilia perked up, saying her name for the inquirer. Omar dugs his fists in to the pockets of his footie-jacket and told the duo to accompany him up the stairs.

Emilia hurried through a cigarette as they walked, the stairs sidewinding through an elevated terrace stuffed with nature’s contraptions of petal-jaws and coiling-brush.

All Emilia seemed occupied with, however, was the beggar. And she, too, became obsessed with the rumors of Mankind’s ascent—blissfully disregarding the reality she knew that nobody was going anywhere special.

And just like that, she was finished with her cigarette.

|Act Deux|

A room with a plastic aroma.

Blood-boiled bulbs bleed unto the scene. Strobes of smoke and scarlet sound.

Sandcastles painted on the walls; behind them the mystic beaches of space. Built from magenta-dust or emerald-gore, standing upon the corners of unknown planets, these sandcastles holding a trillion pieces together through sheer gravity and will.

On the floor, decorative and intricate rugs sprawling across, reminiscent of Persian palaces.

In the middle, an oval-cut booth, dressed in maroon leather, tussles of gold fluff along the precipices. Rising from this lavish throne, a figure of regard and wisdom, moving like a demigod in repose, raising a cup of champagne.

“To all my friends—time makes the blade forget!”

Everybody cheers. Electronic trumpets blare. Maidens dance; jesters spin. A decadence infused with grim detachment. They lack the music of olden whimsy—instead moving mechanically, like robotic replicas imitating a scene from context rather than reality. But this bothers them none.

And so here we are—the sound of shells snapping back to reality.

“Salaam! I am Saladin the Wise. Welcome to my harem of knowledge!”

Saladin clapped.

Emilia and Lulu were offered drinks, then introduced to a circle of sole seats beside the circular cathedra, with a nest of tobacco temples, fur-fringed pumps snaking around their bases and heads.

Aside from Saladin, there was Omar looming in the corner, vigilant.

And there was Soelle, sitting next to Saladin, ignoring the visitors, much keener to blow the mold from her knife-nails, which lunged like claws from her fingertips, stained in hot-pink blood. Smoke looped through the diamond hoops hanging from her ears. She had the appearance and the attitude of a queen.

Saladin’s smile was a huge jumble, twinkling under his round-nose and frizzy hair, and he looked more like a buffoon than a wiseman.

“Lulu, my darling swan! Why have you come to me today? What wisdom do you seek?” Saladin proclaimed.

Lulu sipped her champagne, then spoke, “I seek your guidance on a problem I can’t seem to solve.”

Saladin nodded, then his face sunk in contemplation. Then he asked, “Who is your friend? She is a gorgeous swan!”

Emilia perked up. She had been distracted, admiring the sandcastles, all their detail, from their towers to their gates to their moats.

“Emilia. It is a pleasure.”

Saladin clapped again, enthusiastic.

“Emilia! A perfect name for the perfect portrait. Come, you must indulge in my delicacies. It is only right you have pleasure in the House of Saladin!”

Saladin snapped.

From nowhere, another person emerged with trays of treats, placing them on the tiny stone-surface which stood between the cancerous contraptions, drenched in their smoke, glazed in crimson cream. Then she returned to nowhere.

Saladin gestured for Emilia and Lulu. Emilia looked at her friend, seeking a sign of procedure. Lulu flicked her eyeballs, obviously annoyed, intending Emilia to eat one of Saladin’s offerings. She stared down at the silver-tray, which held a bowl of glass candy and strips of peppered seaweed.

Lulu grabbed one of the strips and chewed it happily. Emilia hesitated. Her stomach was still disturbed from her earlier caffeine, and she really didn’t feel like munching on strange snacks. But Lulu nudged her, implying that Emilia shouldn’t be rude and accept at least one bite of whatever weird gift this wise fellow was giving her.

So she picked one of the glass candies, which felt cold in her hands. It was translucent, spherical, with two symmetrical stripes of blue sugar stretching around it. Her teeth preemptively winced, anticipating what it would feel like to chomp glass.

But she tucked it in, swiftly, then ate her worries away when the unbelievable sweetness dissolved in her mouth. Her entire throat and tongue and jaw were tingling in sensation. Her body warmed. Everything became so wet and hot and sugary. Her limbs shivered. Her torso became mush. It was the most deliciously saccharine thing she had ever tasted.

“Thank you, Saladin. I appreciate your kindness.” Emilia mumbled, still licking residue from her lips. Saladin chuckled warmly.

“You are my valuable guests. All your whims are of value to me. Come, you must try this delicate smoke. It is imported from the land of ancient time—the place where all mankind comes from. Please, you must try this.”

Saladin snapped.

Omar brought hot coals and placed them on the podium of one of the plant-vaporizers, which bubbled and brewed in delight. On the base, letters of languages unspoken for millennia, etched in gold and glue. Omar lifted one of the hairy hoses, handing it to Emilia first.

“You are a new guest in the House of Saladin. It is tradition you smoke first as well.” Omar explained.

Emilia took the tube, no questions, and sucked it with all her force.

The smoke broke upon her lungs like dolphins crashing upon waves. It soothed her welts. It was smooth as serpent-skin, slithering down into her belly, flushes of peppermint and tangerine and baked-bark, peeling the crust from her inner organs, renewing her breathe, rejuvenating her blood and sweat.

The smoke seeped through every vein, pulsating every cell along the way, orgasmic needles pricking every last cent of her body. It crawled like vines upon stone, outward in labyrinthine motion, weaving a web of sylvan silk, cradling its host in tendril embrace. Emilia was paralyzed. Yet, she was not uncomfortable.

As the smoke dissipated, her body reverted to its natural state, which felt unnatural compared to what it had just experienced. By the time she had feeling and movement again, Emilia was disappointed, drained, drowned. She had preferred being paralytic. She had preferred the smoke wearing her carcass like a costume. It was a feeling beyond human hue.

“You like it, yes? It is exquisite! Saladin only provides the best for his companions!” Saladin inhaled from his own pump, expelling the smoke in a bluster of gust, shaped exactly like a sandcastle.

And just like a sandcastle in rising tides, it was only a temporary moment until it evaporated into nothingness.

“It is the divine will that has brought you to me. Do you believe this?” Saladin inquired.

Emilia was still recovering. Lulu poked her cheek, reminding her of the material realm.

“Excuse my friend, she is overwhelmed by your luscious smoke. She is a true Frenchwoman—she’s only smoked cigarettes, never any hookahs.” Emilia blushed, then apologized.

Saladin repeated his question.

Emilia thought about it, then answered, “I believe in a cosmic will, yes. In something greater than ourselves. I believe in a higher power.” She swallowed.

“I don’t mean to offend anyone, but I don’t believe in a He or a She or a master plan or anything like that. I think it’s more like, well, there are cells, and something tells them they need to be cells and act like cells and do cell things. And then the cells do as they’re told, and everything else just sort of happens because of it.”

Saladin hunched over, contemplating. Emilia hoped she hadn’t offended him by morphing his definition of divine will into a different idea.

Arisen from his meditation, however, Saladin still smiled, still laughed in heart, and responded to Emilia, “You are wiser than you know, my friend. It is divine will that seeds grow to trees; that eggs hatch to fly; that earth rotates and sun shines. The matter of the universe is planned in advance. Even chaos is a device of this design. Even randomness and nothingness serve a purpose.”

Saladin gulped another drag from his pump, spewing smoke out in the form of sparkling stars, which levitated to the heavens, out of mortal sight.

“This higher power you speak of—it is not a singular entity. It is embedded in everything. The divine will is us. We are the higher power.”

Emilia pondered this apparent truth. Saladin, humbled, clasped his hands together, closed his eyes, and bent his head backward, praying to the spectacle of everything around him.

“So, if what you say is true, then it was us that brought ourselves here. And this is true, we did choose to come here. But why is there a here or an us in the first place?” Emilia asked.

Saladin nodded, then spoke, “You ask the right questions. Curiosity is infinitely more powerful than wisdom. If the moment ever comes when you know everything, then truly you know nothing. Let me see, for you my friend, what it is you seek.”

Saladin meditated.

Emilia waited, her eyes leering over to the wall, those sandcastles still standing. Saladin whispered, under his breath, as if communing with an apparition from beyond, his voice hushed in spiritual reverence.

Emilia looked beside him, at his companion. Soelle was puffing smoke from her pump, glaring at the corner, uninterested in the conversation. Her long lashes flared with every cuff of smoke that rose through them. Emilia wondered why she was there. What insight did Soelle deliver to Saladin? What insight could he impart on her? Maybe it was a matter of yin and yang—the fountain of wisdom contrasted against an abyss of thoughtlessness. A necessary paradox, perhaps, to ensure the full spectrum of possibility, from positive to negative, whole to empty.

Emilia looked at her friend. She was sitting there, fidgeting, probably thinking about how terribly long today has been and how she wasn’t even supposed to be alive for it. Emilia almost laughed, but annulled the action because it was inappropriate, and her friend had been through enough trouble for one day.

Saladin finally sighed. Then he glistened, speaking, “My friend, you have taught me something today. You asked why the divine will is, and I have contemplated the reason, diving deep within myself for a proper view, only to realize I should have been looking outward!”

Saladin slapped his forehead. “You see, we already know the answer. We are here, are we not? So, this is why. By virtue of being at all, this is why we be. There is something because without something, nothing is undefined. Nothing requires something so it can be nothing. Its definition is dependent upon its opposite.”

Emilia and Lulu both looked at each other, confused. Saladin recognized their confusion, and insisted, “I know it seems insensible. But why are we here? We are here because if we weren’t here, we would be nowhere. And if we were nowhere, then we wouldn’t be at all—and there wouldn’t be a nowhere for us to be if we weren’t being at all. You have proven to me a wisdom I did not have before. That the question of why is answered by itself—why is why is why!”

Saladin roared with laughter, tears parading down his face.

His euphoria was infectious, and soon Emilia was laughing uncontrollably too, with Lulu following, and eventually even Soelle beheld them, diverting her attention away from her nails to watch the primates around her self-destruct in absurd relief. Though she did not partake herself, the fact she became intrigued at all was a testament to the dreadful delirium unfolding.

It wasn’t the truth Emilia had been seeking—it was so much more dooming. The truth of no truth. How haunting.

After everybody calmed, Saladin summoned a graveness to his demeanor, addressing Lulu directly, “My darling swan, it was you that desired most to come here. It is you that has a problem you cannot solve. Tell me, my friend, what is it that ails you? What wisdom do you seek?”

“I want to kill myself. I keep trying, but it’s impossible. It’s almost like I can’t die.” Lulu explicated to Saladin.

His Wiseness spoke, “Impermanence is impossible. Everything must come to an end. My darling swan, shall I guide you to what you seek?”

Lulu rubbed her chin, thinking. Then she said, “Yes, that is what I really want. I came to you for help because I knew you were the only one who could help. Your wisdom saves us all.”

Saladin bowed, humbling, “I am no wiser than a discarded shell on the beach. No wiser than a speck of dust on a shelf. You will see. I shall guide you to what you seek, but you must walk the path alone.”

Lulu nodded. “That’s fine. I have no qualms walking whatever path by myself.”

She got up from her seat, expecting to go somewhere.

Saladin smiled. “You will always find what you seek in the House of Saladin! May divine wisdom bless you, as you begin the journey toward your desire. Come, let us find what you seek…”

Saladin snapped.

A blast splattered her head all over the floor.

Emilia flinched, startled by the sudden boom. She reveled in horror as her friend stood motionless, her face missing, replaced by a hole of dangling strands, tentacles of gut and blood sprouting from a crater, her brain shattered to shreds, coils of it unraveled and stuck to her remaining bone like confetti. Her stance didn’t remain forever, and her body finally fell to the ground in a splashing thud.

Omar, who was behind her, cleaned his gun out of respect and concealed it away to its resting spot once more.

Emilia gasped in shock. She couldn’t say anything. The nausea that had been plaguing her since morning reached its breaking point, the contents of her stomach erupting from her mouth. Saladin winced, mourning the demise of his luxurious carpet.

With her insides cleared, Emilia screamed.

Soelle seemed amused. “Your friend is fine now. The best death is a surprise.”

That was all she had to say, redirecting her devotion back to her nails.

Saladin comforted Emilia, “My darling swan, she dives to her peace now! You must understand, I did only what she wanted me to do. Are you upset, my friend?”

He waited for Emilia’s composure to regain.

Once it did, Emilia, panting, spoke, “Y-Yes. Yes. I understand. Thank you. You are…” Emilia choked, chunks of vomit still clogging her throat. “You are most wise.”

Emilia rose, wobbling. Omar grasped her arms, assisting her in stabilizing. She strained her eyes as far from her friend’s corpse as she could, focusing intently on the sandcastles.

Saladin stepped beside her, observing them himself.

“Castles made of sand always fall in to the sea eventually…”

The sound of waves whispering.

Emilia, leaving, shut her eyes, the last image seen an impression of a sandcastle, as Omar and Saladin gripped her and led her outside.

|Act Trois|

I was alone again.

On the porch, overlooking a street steeped in drowsy dusk. The lamplights glowed fuzzy, balls of shiny fur humming in the surrounding night. Along the shadows, everything swirled like an abstract painting.

I looked for the painter’s brush, following the strokes, that every bit of dark which seemed out of place or smeared on. But I couldn’t find the fingers, folded on a stick, illustrating a new reality in the material of crushed powder and melted glass. I couldn’t find anyone

I sighed. Where had I been? What was I doing? Who have I become? Then I snickered. Like I ever knew who I was in the first place, let alone who I had transformed in to. Leave me alone. I didn’t want to be bothered by thoughts like that, empty and unhelpful as they are.

I was Emilia. And I needed a cigarette.

The sounds of sirens singing in delight burrowed its way through the drowsiness. I walked away from the place I had been, in to the path beside the street, joined by sleepy lamplights and intoxicated fireflies.

There were random strangers without faces. They weren’t walking anywhere; they just hung in the deeper portions of sight, clinging to darkness as if they were afraid of revealing their hideousness. I knew how that felt. I knew what it meant to hide myself away. Fuck, I needed a cigarette.

Bodyguards of the state were patrolling their areas, probably frustrated to be spending a perfectly lazy night exacting the neurotic policy of lords living in homes far away from such concerns. They carried their phallic extensions, loaded in harmful ornaments, always prepared for when the mood should sour suddenly, and chaos become comfortable in its own skin.

“Could I bother you for a smoke?” I asked one of the brutes.

Like a sulking gargoyle he gazed at me, in controlled ire, then faced away to watch other things. What a sullen loaf. No matter. I wandered further down the paved path, popping in and out of lamplights, each one more dazed than the last. It amazed me they even had any spark left. On a night like this?

Everything was so diffused. Quietness was quaking. Silence had violence. The moon, half-lit, smoked its own cigarette, a dreary squiggle of haze floating away from it, into the utter blackness of space.

The surface of the waves from a nearby riverway couldn’t even bother to reflect in a symmetrical, instead coloring the moon and stars onto its shady-sapphire surface in crayons and hatchets. The waves barely made any movement at all, tingling into triangular splash only when a duck paddled its way through. And even the ducks had their beaks at half-tilt, beady-eyes closed, feathers snoozing as they bumped off brick wall to brick wall, letting liquid inertia drag them by, slower than trees. And the trees even! Their leaves droopy, their branches sighing—the bark across their faces slung to the side in uninspired sadness. How blasé!

I wanted to shout, “Wake up!” to every passing thing, but I decided it wasn’t worth my time or energy. Then I embarrassed myself, realizing I was as allergic to effort as everything else had been on this night. At least we shared something in common.

“Do you have a cigarette I could borrow?” I queried one of the ducks while standing over a railing. His beak-snout didn’t even perk up in my direction, but he still quacked a negating quack, and drifted on from my dreams. What vermin.

Sometimes this city is a slumbering wasteland.

I dallied onward. Until I didn't recognize where I was anymore. Not that it looked any different. Just the same metropolitan mecca, intertwined by the same endless street with the same banal bazaars.

Napoleon must have lost his mind commuting across this city—no wonder he sought other shores. Such is the plight of conquerors I suppose. You wouldn't become a conqueror if you were content staying where you are.

Approaching through the veil, I spied a foggy fire. As I neared it, I kept the same pace, casual and observant. The source of conflagration was a vehicle, smashed upon by a fist of flames. How eerie. The car was doused in blaze, burning from the interior out. Its windows had been shattered, so the smoldering gift could swell instead of suffocate. And as I passed this burning car, I noticed nobody around. It was an elysian flame. The only soul was this fire, engaged by this metallic machine, which held it like a goblet, letting its insides crumple to ash and smoke without a single regard for itself.

The ethereal combustion, eternal in force.

I exited the area, leaving behind the effigy of rage and rebellion. Up ahead, a curious and callous sound—the sound of people. The sound of a crowd gathering, the hiccups, elbow-bumps, muted coughs, uncareful gossip. There was anticipation for something.

As I neared the end of the street, I scanned through the midnight mist to see the tower of Eiffel, erect in fireworks and lanterns. A bustle of randomly dressed persons were shuffled into lines, at the base of an enormous metal claw; within its palms a golden shuttle, mounted with silver wings and boosters.

On a platform overhanging the spectacle, two astronauts stood alongside a speaker, who announced in tremendous tone the events unfolding.

I roamed into the lagoon, slicing my way through dazed onlookers, through wondrous children, through trapped gazers. Up to the front, where I snuck under the velvet rope—when no one was looking, which was easy since most everyone stared at the spacecraft—and I tiptoed into my place in the front of the line. One of the pilots was down there, greeting people half-heartedly, as if the excitement of spaceflight had waned from him quite some time ago.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

Without looking at me, he said, “Somewhere far away, I hope. You mean to fly with us?”

“You’d really let me go with you? In to space?” I said, eyes deepening.

He waved me by, exclaiming, “Sure. Why not. You seem like you want to go. Why should I stop you from what you want?”

I giggled in glee, my face pelted by internal rain, frothing down my cheeks in a most unkept way. But I wasn’t embarrassed.

The pilot lifted the rope and allowed me to pass. I ambled down the railed path, up flights of stairs, winding steel grates, until I reached the entrance of the rocketship and was bestowed with my very own spacesuit and a bouquet of flowers. A French model kissed each of us as we passed through the door, in to a chamber of glittery buttons and deafening silicon-fences, supported in circular fashion around the whole corridor.

A fellow astronaut showed me to my seat, then strapped me in, whistling an old tune that soldiers used to whistle during the old war—the great one. None of them were great.

Even inside, I could still hear outside people shouting. They hollered farewells and “c’est la vie”, glad that they themselves didn’t have to ruin routine by hopping on an interstellar locomotion to nowhere. They were content to return to their lives, wandering from café to store to park, astonished by every new cage, yet unconcerned with doing anything about them. To walk among the ancient streets where knights and kings once galloped—now occupied by troopers and beggars. To ignore the refuge and embrace the resonant. To be vapid, empty ghosts, haunting a place that was happy when no one was there.

The disgruntled pilot entered, situating himself beside me. As he buckled in, he glanced at me, his face stone and sour, but encumbered with surprise. “I’ve never seen someone so happy to go into space before.”

I wiped my face dry as best I could, trying to feign my smile to death, but I couldn’t.

“I don’t know if it’s so much so going into space,” I said. “As it is a last-minute effort to forget I was never there to begin with.”

The pilot chuckled, then commanded his attention forward, to the great steering mechanisms, wheels of blasted fury. They sealed the door shut. This was it. I could feel the rumbling below me, bubbling up like a feverish nausea all its own, the ship rattling in unsettling pangs.

I reclaimed my composure, being as mature and disconnected as I could be about such a thing as what was happening. As if it was passé to be spacebound.

The countdown initiated. The two astronauts ahead of us clicked the ignition, tapped their knobs and buttons and googly gadgets. They acted as if it was simulation. As if it was vexation. As if it was something they just had to get through; a gallery or museum they hurry through, disregarding the depth of present art, eliminating the exposure to the past some revere—revere enough to have tombs built to honor these objects and their articulators.

“Have you ever seen a quasar before?” I burst out.

The pilot scratched his nose. “Only the kind I spread on my toast.”

They engaged the thrusting emotions, stirring up those memories of fuel and fusion. The resulting concoction was a nostalgic spark, a wistful thunderbolt to the cold heart of rocketship.

I turned to the other patrons beside myself, but I found them unrelatable. They all had tattered faces, worn with beaten expressions, speaking in a language I did not understand. I smiled at them though, and they smiled back, all of us connected by our collective odyssey. And the pilot, even, revealed a bar of chocolate candy from his sleeve like some kind of magician, passing it along to the younger ones next to me.

He also offered me a piece, expressing to me an amiable resentment, “It’s still a mystery to me why people want to follow the stars. They don’t go anywhere.”

I agreed with him, nibbling the sweet cocoa paste. A rapturous jubilance captured me, an overwhelming pulse of sincerity and sensation. It was like marinating in morphine.

“Prepare for ascent…” a robotic voice spoke.

I gripped the creases of my spacesuit, my stomach a cauldron of nervousness and neurosis. I was sweating. My anxiety had become palpable. The pilot noticed, nurturing his hand upon my shoulder, quite familiar with this situation, as if everyone got nervous every time they had to do this sort of thing.

“Don’t you worry,” he smirked. “Because we’re almost done.”

The pilot assured me so well that by the time he removed his hand, we had already speared through orbit. At last, we abandoned those apes. And now we were crawling through the muck of space.

Oxygen flickers on…

But I am breathless.

[jasminechoutszyu]

Urbanisation: City as spectacle, dream and nightmare

08/Oct/2018

Urbanisation: city as spectacle

Urbanisation

The ship has been appear, it caused urbanisation more quickly.

Famous researchers in 20 century.

Ferdinand Tonnies

Gemeinschaft und Gesellchaft (1887)

Georg Simmel

'The Metropolis and Mental Life' (1903)

The blase attitude

Emile Durkheim

The Division of Labour in Society(1893)

Mechanical solidarity vs. Organic solidarity

Walter Benjamin

The Arcades Project (1927-1940)

Physiologies-> different types of London (e.x: cyclist)

City as spectacle

New technologies hve been create and the city was became a new viewing (new modern city).

(e.x: Train/ Department store/ telephone......)

Frans Masereel, The City (1925)

Early Film- a 'Cinema of Attrations' (Tom Gunning)

-> “The cinema of attractions solicits a highly conscious awareness of the film image engaging the viewer’s curiosity.”

->Photography of short story/ entertainment

-> Further article: Vincent Li Sun (2010), 'Film Theory: Cinema of attractions': http://justselina.qwriting.qc.cuny.edu/2010/04/27/cinema-of-attractions/ （link)

Buster Keaton, Sherlock Jr. (1924)

Other directors-> Lumiere Brothers/ Georges Melies/ J. Stuart Blackton, Humourous Phases of Funny Faces (1906)/ Winsor McCay, Gertie the Dinosaur (1914)

City as Dream/ Nightmare: The Modernisation of Paris

Haussmannisation- Haussmann's renovation of Paris (1853-1870)

-> Commissioned by Emperor Napoleon III

-> It was a big public works programme (e.x: the building of wide avenues/ new parks and squares/the construction of new sewers/ fountains and aqueducts)

Camille Pissarro, The Boulevard Montmartre on a Winter Morning, 1897, oil on canvas, 64.8 x 81.3 cm (Metropolitam Museum of Art, New York)

-> further article: Dr. Beth Harris and Dr. Steven Zucker, 'Haussmann the Demolisher and the Creation of Modern Paris' (link)

'The new construction wrecked hundreds of buildings, displaced uncounted thousands of people,... But it opened up the whole of city, for the first time in its history, to all its inhabitants.' (Bermann 2010, p150-1)

-> 'Paris was becoming a unified physical and human space' (Bermann 2010, p150-1)

Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867)

->'The Painter of Modern Life' (1863)

-> The Flaneur, people who love to walk in the city and observe it such as the city, street, different people. They are observers, citizens and participants. (Further article, Bijan Stephen (2013), In Praise of the Flâneur)(link)

The Modern Poster

'The ideal poster necessitates one taking it in at a sigle glance despite oneslef... merely by letting one's gaze fall upon it' (George d'Avenal, 1901)

-> Lithography (Stone printing/ Chemical printing) (with link)

It is a printing process

Using a flat stone and metal plate and a greasy substance

Alois Senefelder created this way and published a firm which using lithography at 1796

-> Image and Text

-> Colour

->Size

*The modern posters have started to consider withe the text, colour and size (more bigger).

Alphonse Mucha, Salon des Cent (1896), 24 1/2 x 16 1/4"

Alphonse Mucha, Moet & Chandon: Grand Cremant Imperial (1899), 24 1/4 x 9 5/16"

->Alphonse Mucha (1860-1939) (with link)

Was an extremely influential artist of the Art Nouveau movement

Other artist: Theophile Steinlein/ Jules Cheret/ Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec

Art Nouveau (1890-1910)

'One of the characteristics of Art Nouveau illustration is the sensuous sinuosity of its line... Often inspired by flower, leaf, or stalk, the line is simplified and abstracted to flat surface pattern' (Sainton 1977, p. 5)

->'Art Nouveau artists took the plant forms they saw in nature and then flattened and abstracted them into elegant, organic motifs.' (George Philip Lebourdais,2016)

-> George Philip Lebourdais (2016), What is Art Nouveau? (link)

->Video: ArtNouveau - Overview - Goodbye - Art Academy (link)

Japonisme (1854-1920)

-> Put concepts of Japanese art into European art and design.

-> Further article: https://www.google.com/amp/s/www.theartstory.org/amp/movement-japonism.htm (link)

Alfred Stevens, The Japanese Parisian (1872)

-> Japonisme: The Japanese Influence on Victorian Fashion (link)

Principles of Modernism:

The Total Work of Art

' Art can only be conceived within a regime of unity as a whole homogenous force, as a harmonuous tension based on the equality of all the component parts' (Henry Van de Velde, 1895)

Reject the Past

'The Art Nouveau artists were certain it was a new art; not retrospective, not historic, not nostalgic, and therefore suited for an era of new technology, discoveries, new ideas and an expanding world' (King, 1990, p. 7)

Truth not Ornament

'Truth meant the avoidance of... illusion or false impression... the way an object was made had to be apparent and its visual attractiveness had to come directly out of those processes of construction... Decoration could only make the structural and spatial honesty of an object' (Greenhalgh, 1990)

->Art Deco

Paul Colin/ A. M. Cassandre/ Jean Carlu/ Eduardo Garcia Benito/ Erte

Eduardo Garcia Benito, Vogue (1926)

-> Women in the City

Feminism

Women's status have been promotion

George de Feure, Lithography Originales (1896)

[factpatrol-blog]

Top 10 budget restaurants and bistros in Paris | Travel

New Post has been published on https://factpatrol.com/2017/05/04/top-10-budget-restaurants-and-bistros-in-paris-travel/

Top 10 budget restaurants and bistros in Paris | Travel

Eating on a budget in Paris often used to leave you feeling like the spectre at the feast, or rather sadly deprived of the city’s gastronomic excellence. To be sure, there were always a few wallet-friendly French places where the food was better than average, plus some great ethnic options, but cheap eats rarely equated with seriously good food. Happily, a new generation of innovative restaurateurs are rebooting the French capital’s offer for pennywise travellers, with food that’s good enough even if you aren’t counting your centimes. Oh, and in case you were wondering, Chartier, probably Paris’s most famous budget restaurant, soldiers on as a place people go to get a meal for a tenner (euros, bien sur), just because you can.

Bistrot Victoires

Just a short walk from the Louvre, this cheerful bistro with a nostalgic decor worthy of a Parisian postcard (globe lights, frosted glass windows) is a local favourite for tasty Gallic grub such as steak frites (here served with a smouldering sprig of thyme), confit de canard (grilled preserved duck) or roast chicken. Skip a starter and share a dessert instead, maybe the tarte tatin or the profiteroles with lashings of hot chocolate sauce. • 6 rue La Vrillière, 1st arrondissement, +33 1 42 61 43 78. Open daily for lunch and dinner, average two-course meal €20. Métro: Palais-Royal-Musee-du-Louvre, Pyramides or Sentier

Boco

At this clever mini-chain of three restaurants in the heart of Paris, five three-star chefs – including Anne-Sophie Pic, Régis Marcon, and Emmanuel Renaut – were recruited to create recipes for a selection of eat-in or takeaway starters, mains and desserts using mostly organic produce. Most dishes come in recyclable glass jars (bocal, pronounced “boco,” is French for jar), and they run from Pic’s starter of coddled egg with lentils and red onions, to Renaut’s polenta lasagne with mushrooms and spinach, and Marcon’s braised beef parmentier (shepherd’s pie). Don’t miss star pastry chef Philippe Conticini’s black sesame cream and pistachio crumble for dessert. And note these are also great places to pick up a picnic. • Boco Opéra, 3 rue Danielle Casanova, 1st arr, +33 1 42 61 17 67, boco.fr. Other branches at Bercy-Village and Saint-Lazare. Open Monday to Saturday for lunch and dinner, average three-course meal €20

Breizh Café

The Marais branch of an excellent crêperie from the seaside Breton town of Cancale, serves buckwheat galettes and crêpes made with top quality ingredients – organic wheat and buckwheat flour, farmhouse butter and Valrhona chocolate. The freshly shucked oysters here are a worthy splurge, or you can go right to one of their crispy-edged and neatly folded savoury galettes, maybe the Cancalaise, filled with smoked herring, crème fraîche and herring roe, or the complet, which comes with an egg, ham and cheese, and can be dressed up with extras like mushrooms or artichoke hearts. For dessert, follow the regulars with a salted caramel and vanilla ice-cream crêpe. Wash it all down with one of the 15 different artisanal ciders on offer. • 109 rue Vieille du Temple, 3rd arr, +33 1 42 72 13 77, breizhcafe.com. Open all day Wednesday to Sunday, closed for three weeks in August, average €15. Métro: St-Sébastien-Froissart

La Cantine de la Cigale

Sausages and beans at Cantine de la Cigale. Photograph: Alexander Lobrano

Right in the heart of honky-tonk Pigalle, talented bistro chef Christian Etchebest’s recently-opened restaurant offers excellent eats from south-west France at surprisingly affordable prices. It is ideal for those feeling weary after a tour of the local shops selling life-size dolls and fur-lined hand-cuffs, or, more decorously, on their way back from visiting the Sacre Coeur. Portions at this friendly place serving non-stop from 8am-2am are generous, so share a slice of the excellent pâté, then go for the sausage with white beans or cod in sauce vierge, and finish up with some Ossau-Iraty cheese from the Pyrenees with black-cherry jam or maybe a slice of mirabelle tart with almond cream. • 124 boulevard Rochechouart, 18th arr, +33 1 55 79 10 10, cafelacigale.com. Open Monday to Saturday for breakfast, lunch and dinner, average two-course meal €20. Métro: Pigalle, Abbesses or Anver

L’Ilot

Though it’s landlocked, Paris is one of the best cities in the world for seafood lovers, because it’s well supplied from French ports on the Atlantic and the Mediterranean. Usually, a good French marine feast is expensive, but at this easygoing little place in the Marais, you can share a starter – maybe some taramasalata or half a crab, and then tuck into a dozen oysters or a plate of smoked fish without a major wound to your wallet. • 4 rue de la Corderie, 3rd arr, +33 6 95 12 86 61, no website. Open Tuesday to Friday for lunch and dinner, Saturday dinner only, average two -course meal €20. Métro: Temple, République or Filles du Calvaire

Frenchie to Go

Frenchie, Paris

Chef Gregory Marchard’s bistro Frenchie (he acquired the nickname when he was working for Jamie Oliver in London) in the Sentier, Paris’s old garment district, is one of the hardest reservations in town to land, and beyond the reach of budget diners. You can still sample his wares, however, at this casual takeaway or eat-in shop with a moreish menu that runs to first-rate Reuben and pulled pork sandwiches, fish and chips, cheesecake, doughnuts and homemade ginger beer. They also serve breakfast all day long. • 9 rue du Nil, 2nd arr, no phone, frenchietogo.com. Open Tuesday-Saturday 8am-6pm, with lunch from 12-4pm, breakfast served all day, average €15. Métro: Sentier or Strasbourg-Saint-Denis.

Le Petit Clerc

Just around the corner from the chic bistro La Fontaine de Mars, where the Obamas famously dined, Le Petit Clerc is its excellent-value sibling and ideal for a meal before or after a visit to the Eiffel Tower. Popular with the locals – so book – this place offers everything from croques (open sandwiches) to omelettes and well-garnished salads, making it relatively vegetarian friendly. There’s a different hot dish served daily for €12.50, including roast veal on Tuesdays and roast chicken on Sundays, and steaks come with garnishes of a jacket potato and salad. You’ll never feel like you’re penny-pinching either when you can tuck into cheese from Marie-Anne Cantin, one of Paris’s best-known fromagers, or sorbets and ice-cream from local legend Berthillon. • 129 rue Saint-Dominique, 7th arr, +33 1 47 05 46 44, fontainedemars.com. Open daily for lunch and dinner, average two-course meal €20. Métro: École Militaire or Pont de l’Alma (RER C)

Le Richer

Photograph: Alexander Lobrano

The 10th arrondissement, an old working-class district in the heart of Paris, is in a sweet spot right now. The recent influx of young creative Parisians has added some excellent bars and restaurants to the neighbourhood without gentrifying local businesses like African hair-grooming salons or Balkan groceries out of the mix. Le Richer, a popular cafe-bar-restaurant that’s the annex of the popular L’Office bistro across the street, is one the best deals in the quartier, too. Sit at the bar and get a beautifully cooked main course – maybe braised beef cheeks with buttered cabbage, salsify and pears with a glass of red for €20. Or you could share a couple of starters – maybe trout tartare with cauliflower and tomato-citrus mousse and wild rabbit terrine – instead. Lunch is even cheaper and they also serve breakfast. Friendly service and a great crowd. • 2 rue Richer, 9th arr, no phone, facebook page. Open daily 8am-1am, average lunch €15, average dinner main course €16. Métro: Cadet or Grands Boulevards

La Pointe du Groin

Escape the fast-food cluster around the Gare du Nord for a cheap and delicious meal at chef Thierry Breton’s third restaurant; his Chez Michel and Chez Casimir, a few doors down, are among the better bistros in Paris, and you get the same quality here for a lot less money. The name refers both to a peninsula in Brittany and a pig’s snout, the latter hinting at the menu, which runs to rustic barnyard eats like pig’s snout with tapenade and oxtail with celery root puree. There are sandwiches, including a few vegetarian ones, made with Breton’s baked-on-the-premises bread, for less adventurous eaters, and Breton desserts like a delectable chocolate kouign amann and far Breton, a thick flan with prunes, are not to be missed. The box wines served here do no harm and keep the prices down, too. • 8 rue de Belzunce, 10th arr, no phone or website. Open all day Monday-Saturday, average €20. Métro: Gare du Nord or Poissonnière

A la Biche au Bois

Though this place tops out at the high-end of the €20 bracket without drinks (the price ceiling that defines budget eats in Paris these days), it’s eminently worth the splurge as one of the last old-fashioned no-nonsense seriously good workaday bistros in Paris. If you need to stay in the shallow end of things, go for a main course – maybe venison with homemade potato puree, since this is one of the rare restaurants in Paris where game is still affordable, and a glass of red wine. If you can manage a little more, however, the €25.90 prix fixe menu comes with all sorts of goodness, from a very good steak with real (as opposed to frozen) chips and a lavish cheese course, to a stewed sanglier (wild boar) and freshly-made fruit tart. They also do a heart-warming range of old-fashioned bistro dishes, including coq au vin, and wines are reasonably priced, too. Always busy, so book. • 45 avenue Ledru-Rollin, 12th arr, +33 1 43 43 34 38, no website. Open Tuesday to Friday for lunch and dinner, Monday dinner only, main courses from €17, prix fixe three-course meal €29.50. Métro: Gare de Lyon

• Paris-based Alexander Lobrano is the author of Hungry for France and Hungry for Paris.

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by Melissa McKenzie                        

Those looking for the feel of an authentic European-style holiday market don't necessarily need to travel beyond the Midpeninsula. The region is home to a growing number of  holiday pop-up markets, each with its own cultural flair and one-of-kind handcrafted items.

Looking for handcarved nutcrackers from Germany? Head to downtown Mountain View's German market, where you might even encounter the mythical Krampus roaming the outdoor vendor booths looking for children who have misbehaved. Craving Parisian breads or looking for handmade scented soaps? The French market in Palo Alto includes an array of imported foods and crafts from the City of Lights. And those looking for the opportunity to learn a Russian jig while browsing booths for gift items will likely find an opportunity at the Waldorf School of the Peninsula Annual Holiday Faire in Los Altos.

From the music, specialty foods and children's activities to the imported handicrafts and one-of-a-kind items from local artisans, these pop-up markets provide shoppers more than a place to find unique gifts — they provide a chance to participate in the holiday joys of giving with proceeds from many of them benefitting various local nonprofits.

"People enjoy the festive atmosphere; it puts them in the holiday spirit," said Fanny Retsek, director of the Palo Alto Art Center Studio, which holds a ceramics and jewelry sale during the holiday season. Proceeds from the event benefit the nonprofit's programs. "People can pick up the work, hold it or try it on to see how it looks. (It's) not like buying something online where you don't really know what it will be like when it arrives."

According to the organizers of these European-style fairs, there's a sense of belonging and inclusion that comes from attending the markets.

"In a postmodern society that has always been a melting pot, people seek authenticity," said Father Andrew Smith of Nativity of the Holy Virgin Orthodox Church in Menlo Park, which hosts the annual Russian Christmas Bazaar. "They might not have an idea of what their own authenticity is, and I think it's comforting and nostalgic to find that somewhere else."

Elisabeth Michel, who organizes The French Fair, believes culturally focused fairs serve as an introduction to a particular country's customs and a meeting place for native transplants. The fair, she explained, started 15 years ago as a way for the French community to celebrate and support French products and locally owned French businesses. Over the years, it's grown well beyond the French community, she said

"For American people or non-French people ... there's an attraction to ... seeing something different," Michel said. "We want to make people feel as if they were in France for a day."

Susan O'Sullivan, director of development and external relations at Filoli in Woodside, believes people come to the historic estate's annual European-influenced holiday market for another reason — to find gifts that are difficult to find elsewhere.

"I think online shopping with the big retailers makes it easy to find items that are widely available, but many folks really try to seek out things that are locally made or artisan made and unique."

Here's a list of some of the pop-up markets scheduled to take place along the Midpeninsula this holiday season:

The French Fair — A Day in France

Launched by a small group of French residents living in southern California 15 years ago, The French Fair has found a growing following in Palo Alto, where it has been held over the past six years. According to organizers, the fair has become the largest Bay Area event devoted to French culture, food and fashion. This year's holiday fair includes more than 60 vendors selling handmade items and European imports; two French singers; children's activities; a fashion show; a French car exhibition; and French imported foods — charcuterie, baguette sandwiches, pastries, cheese — from Sunnyvale's Frenchery market, which imports and delivers hard-to-find food items directly from France.

Where: Lucie Stern Theatre, 1305 Middlefield Road, Palo Alto. When: 10 a.m. to 6 p.m., Saturday, Nov. 16. Cost: Free. A portion of the event's proceeds benefit Mentor Tutor Connection, a nonprofit program launched by the Los Altos Rotary Club in 1996 to provide classroom tutors and mentors at Mountain View and Los Altos schools. Info: frenchfair.org

Filoli Artisan Market

Visitors can take a stroll back in time to experience the historic Filoli estate decorated as it would have been when the Bourn and Roth families occupied the space between 1917 and 1975. As part of Holidays at Filoli festivities, in which the house and gardens are adorned to reflect the season, Filoli hosts its annual five-day Filoli Artisan Market with a festive French feel. This year's market will include 20 artisans who will be selling soaps, hand-turned wood bowls, jewelry, ornaments, glass items, fine art, notecards and more. Food gift items also will be available for purchase from vendors, including Bert's Bites and Woodside Bakery. Additionally, Filoli's newly developed hard cider — made with apples from the property's orchard — as well as its honey, vinegars and teas will be available for purchase.

Where: Filoli Visitor Center, 86 Canada Road, Woodside.

When: 11 a.m. - 7 p.m., Saturday - Sunday, Nov. 23-24 & Friday - Sunday, Nov. 29-30, Dec. 1.

Cost: $25 adult, $12 children 5-17 (includes admission to Filoli house and gardens.); $35 adult, $18 children 5-17 for evening market, which includes illuminated grounds and holiday-themed entertainment. Proceeds benefit the historic, nonprofit property.

Info: filoli.org/event/artisan-market

Waldorf School of the Peninsula Annual Holiday Faire

More of a holiday event with items for sale than a vendor-focused bazaar, the Annual Holiday Faire is a community-centered, activity-focused day of fun for students, their families and members of the community. Curated items for sale include wooden puzzles and toys, wreaths, locally made bath and body-care items, shawls, jewelry and handmade items crafted by parents. Activities are ticket-based and include beeswax candle dipping, wreath making, hair braiding and face painting. Pocket fairies roam the grounds, musicians perform traditional Russian jigs. Puppet shows and storytelling areas keep children entertained. There is also a gnome adventure crawlspace for kids and holiday trees are placed throughout the winter wonderland-themed event. Additionally, Ce Patli, a food truck focused on organic, non-GMO Mexican cuisine will be onsite and hot chocolate and horchata are available for purchase.

Where: Waldorf School of the Peninsula, 11311 Mora Drive, Los Altos. Shuttle available from Antiochian Orthodox Church of the Redeemer, 380 Magdalena Ave, Los Altos.

When: 6 - 9 p.m., Friday, Dec. 6 (adults-only boutique); 10 a.m. to 4 p.m., Saturday, Dec. 7, (all ages — boutique and activities).

Cost: Free. Proceeds benefit the school.

Info: waldorfpeninsula.org/event/annual-holiday-faire/

The Art Center Ceramics and Jewelry Sale

Jewelry artist Barbara Carman initiated the idea for the annual Palo Alto Art Center Ceramics and Jewelry Sale four years ago as a way for the studio artists to show and sell their work, as well as to showcase the caliber of artwork being created at the nonprofit center — managed by the City of Palo Alto — which is open to the public for art activities of all ages. The sale provides an opportunity to purchase unique, handmade, high-quality gifts and objects ranging from functional plates, bowls, platters and mugs to sculptures and jewelry made of precious metals and stones designed and fabricated by the 46 professional artist vendors. The Art Center Gallery also is open during the event.

Where: Palo Alto Art Center,1313 Newell Road, Palo Alto.

When: 10 a.m. to 4 p.m., Saturday, Dec. 7

Cost: Free. Proceeds benefit the participating artists, the studios and the Palo Alto Art Center Foundation.

Info: cityofpaloalto.org/gov/depts/csd/artcenter

Annual Christmas Market at Allied Arts Guild

Menlo Park's landmark Allied Arts Guild, which for decades has housed shops and artist studios in its 1920s-era Spanish-style buildings, hosts an annual Christmas Market that includes an eclectic mix of artisans selling everything from spices, Peruvian crafts and handsewn items to wool and knitted goods, jewelry, mosaic art, linen items, leather and wood gifts, natural soaps and lip balms and locally made toffee spaced throughout its 3.5 acres of gardens. Entertainment includes a visit from Santa, carolers and live music throughout the day. Guests are encouraged to make lunch reservations at Cafe Wisteria, (650-838-9002). As part of the festivities, some shops give out small gifts and treats to visitors, others hold drawings.

Where: Allied Arts Guild, 75 Arbor Road, Menlo Park.

When: 10 a.m. to 4 p.m., Saturday, Dec. 7

Cost: Free. Proceeds support the Packard Children's Hospital.

Info: alliedartsguild.org

Russian Christmas Bazaar

For more than 50 years, Nativity of the Holy Virgin Orthodox Church in Menlo Park has brought a little bit of the Russian tradition to the holiday shopping season. This one-day event contains a rummage sale, two local artists selling artwork, church tours and honey from the Holy Assumption Orthodox Monastery in Calistoga. Live Russian music and a Russian puppet show will keep visitors entertained while they dine, a la carte, on traditional Russian cuisine handmade from recipes passed on from generation to generation, including cabbage rolls, piroshki, borscht and a variety of sweet desserts. In addition to the food, one of the biggest draws to the bazaar is its "Lucky Barrel," where for $2, guests can purchase a wrapped children's or adult gift without knowledge of what's under the paper.

Where: Nativity of the Holy Virgin Orthodox Churchm 1220 Crane St., Menlo  Park.

When: 10 a.m. to 4 p.m., Saturday, Dec. 7

Cost: Free. Donations accepted.  Proceeds benefit the parish's religious sisterhood of nuns.

Info: tserkov.org

German Holiday Market

In every village, town and city in Germany, an open-air Christmas market, Weihnachtsmarkt or Christkindlmarkt, is held every holiday season. In 2013, the German International School of Silicon Valley (GISSV) developed the German Holiday Market in downtown Mountain View to bring the German cultural tradition to the Bay Area. In striving for an authentic experience, GISSV places wood facades on booths to create a village atmosphere representing those found in Germany, Austria and Switzerland, and sells German food and sweets, as well as holiday market hallmarks, such as Gluhwein (warm mulled wine) and Kinderpunsch (hot cider). Only vendors offering handcrafted goods or items imported from Germany and other parts of Europe are chosen to participate in the fair. "It's an authentic German Christmas market which you (typically) can't find here in the Bay Area," said vendor Dennis Olarte, who helps his wife, Conny, sell her handmade, natural soaps called Essence of O.

"It's so much fun. You have the Christmas lights, you have the food, you have the drinks, you have the cookies and pretzels they serve in Germany, and you can't find that anywhere."

Where: Mountain View City Hall Plaza, 500 Castro St., Mountain View.

When: 11 a.m. to 9 p.m., Saturday, Dec. 14.

Cost: Free. Proceeds from the event benefit the German International School of Silicon Valley.

Info: gissv.org/gissv-home-english/school-life/events/german-holiday-market   

[tripstations]

You Can’t Miss the Finest Christmas Markets in Europe 2019

Boughs of prickled inexperienced holly adorns the highest of cabined huts. Bratwursts sizzle within the crisp night time air. Mitten-hands maintain cups of heat mulled wine. The jingling sounds of All I Need for Christmas may be heard from far and extensive. It will possibly solely imply one factor – the Christmas markets are on their means and your presents is required!

Amsterdam Christmas Markets

It’s not a well-kept secret that Amsterdam is likely one of the prettiest cities in Europe, particularly when the winter climate hits and the canals are glossed over with a transparent sheen of ice, prepared for the courageous souls that skate throughout them. However for those who’re new to this Dutch gem, and desirous to keep away from the areas which can be bustling with bicycles, Contiki is readily available to indicate you the magic of Christmas. Suppose fairy-lights, holly and ivy above quaint cafes, mulled wine steaming from outdoors teapots and sufficient Christmas bushes to be rockin’ round till the brand new yr – yuletide be sorry to overlook it!

Paris Christmas Markets

Paris for Christmas? The town might be the romantic capital of the world however the annual Christmas markets take it to the dizzying heights of romance that you just solely see within the films.

If you happen to’re spending your day as a vacationer and lapping up the Parisian tradition, climbing to the 2nd ground of the Eiffel Tower or catching a glimpse of the Mona Lisa on the Louvre, then the Magic of Christmas (or La Magie de Noel for all of the fluent French audio system) is subsequent to this world-famous museum. Right here, you’ll get to stroll by way of the miniature village of cabined picket huts, selecting up selfmade pastries or warming the cockles with a French wine tipple or three.

Escape the hustle and bustle of the Paris metropolis centre and enterprise into the cultural hub of Montemartre. Residence to the Sacre-Couer, that means the Sacred Coronary heart of Paris, this pleasant spot provides you Instagram-worthy views of the town (spot the Eiffel Tower within the distance!) and genuine Parisian cafes stuffed with heat croissants and ache au chocolat. This Christmas market is a traditional selection for anybody into the humanities and crafts, with many individuals of the humanities utilizing Montemartre as inspiration for his or her work and showcasing them on the market!

Barcelona Christmas Markets

The thriving Spanish metropolis of Barcelona units the usual excessive for the magic of Christmas with a sleigh-full of Christmas markets with all Santa’s most interesting goodies.

A Christmas market in opposition to the backdrop of Gaudi’s most interesting buildings? Sure please. Fira de Nadal de la Sagrada Familia sits in entrance of one of the well-known buildings on the earth – La Sagrada Familia. With over 100 stalls to get pleasure from and the person in purple himself doing his rounds, it’s the proper place to take the household for a stroll in a winter wonderland.

There’s snow means that you just’ll run out of Christmas markets in Barca although, particularly with its oldest Christmas truthful, Fira de Santa Llucia bringing the North Pole to this European hotspot. Suppose Nativity scenes, arts and crafts, Christmas bushes aplenty and sufficient tapas to feed a nation – we’re reserving our tickets already…

Rome Christmas Markets

There’s no higher time to go to Rome than when it’s dusted with a wintery layer of white snow and your Contiki tour can take you there. The romance, the historical past, the magic of Christmas cloaking the Coliseum; it’s sufficient to make you need it to be Christmas day-after-day!

Wrap your self up in opposition to the winter chill and benefit from the smells of chestnuts roasting on an open fireplace on the Piazza Navona Christmas market by Bernini’s Quattro Fiumi. Whether or not you’ve been naughty or good this yr, you’ll nonetheless be handled to festive rides on the nostalgic carousel, get pleasure from stay Christmas acts and distinctive arty presents that you just received’t discover wherever else on the earth. Bought a starvation pang that chestnuts simply can’t fill? Give your candy tooth precisely what it’s searching for with some scrumptious Roman sweets. Properly, what they are saying, when in Rome…

Venice Christmas Markets

Venice wants little in the best way of introduction however what you may not know is that this Italian metropolis is a festive gem come December time. Main as much as the massive day, the entire of Camp Santo Stefano turns into dwelling to a live-singing, all-dancing, food-offering, present-buying Christmas Village. Sure you learn this proper, not a market however an entire village awaits you. This traditional Christmas expertise provides you all of the genuine Italian traditions that you just dream of – selfmade breads, buttered pastries, olive oils, balsamic vinegars, pastas and naturally, flavour-filled panettone freshly baked and prepared on your Christmas Day dinner desk.  The meals isn’t the one factor that ought to be setting your coronary heart racing, there’s so many great present concepts that you just received’t must go for an Amazon present card late Christmas Eve. This might stop an entire load of arguments on 25th December morning…

Vienna Christmas Markets

Ah Austria, you absolute magnificence. With its rolling hills and breath-taking landscapes, it’s nearly inconceivable to not fall immediately in love with this nation and least not, it’s capital metropolis Vienna. Famed for its unforgettable festive markets, Vienna has develop into a trending Christmas vacation spot over latest years, with each Instagram story inside a 12-country radius giving us FOMO for opting out of the Vienna-life and staying put within the flu-infested workplace.

However this yr, it may very well be you displaying off in your Insta story with panoramic pictures of the Viennese Dream Christmas Market, sat in entrance of the Metropolis Corridor and illuminated by hundreds of gold twinkling lights. Right here, you’ll be taught easy methods to take advantage of scrumptious festive cookies this aspect of Europe, prepared so that you can showcase your culinary expertise on Christmas Day. While you’re tackling the chunky chocolate dough, you possibly can singalong to the Christmas carols, carried out stay by choirs from throughout the nation, earlier than exploring the impartial stalls for handmade jewelry, scented candles and soaps, and chocolate. Heaps and LOTS of chocolate. Mmmm.

Berlin Christmas Markets

There’s no Christmas market extra genuine than in its authentic birthplace – Germany. The Germans know easy methods to delight company of their nation and it’s with Christmas Markets bursting on the seams with Bratwursts, Currywursts and mainly, any large, deliciously meaty sausage ending in ‘wurst’.

If you happen to’re within the capital having fun with selfies by the Brandenburg Gate or Checkpoint Charlie, then it’s nearly Grinch-like to not take a sneak peek into the festive markets. We all know it’s not all about dimension however for those who’re searching for a giant one (market that’s), then head to Spandau – it’s big. Embellished with hundreds of fairy lights and an entire host of great twinkling decorations illuminating the town far and extensive, it’s secure to say that they positively do comprehend it’s Christmas. Right here’s our tip although, ensure you attempt some conventional Stollen, Spritzgebäck and Lebkuchen washed down with a cup of piping German mulled wine.

London Christmas Markets

Don’t overlook Contiki excursions begin in London and London does massive nicely. Massive Ferris wheels. Massive bridges. Massive skyscrapers. And most significantly, they sleigh it with BIG Christmas markets.

The preferred Christmas market that this cosmopolitan metropolis has to supply is the aptly dubbed – Winter Wonderland. Located in the course of London’s Hyde Park, Winter Wonderland welcomes over 1,000,000 guests each December to have fun the festive season with heart-stopping rides, stay leisure (suppose Cinderella on skates – like actually) and a Christmas market crammed with trinkets, sizzling chocolate, handmade jewelry, personalised Christmas playing cards and an entire host of different festive delights so that you can get pleasure from.

If the busyness of Winter Wonderland places you off, you possibly can have a calmer festive expertise at London’s Southbank. Though on a a lot smaller scale, the Southbank Christmas market provides you the house to see every cabin’s choices at your individual leisure while tucking right into a roasted marshmallow or cup of eggnog as you browse!

There’s a lot to see and uncover in Europe in winter time, least not when Contiki supply excursions that take you to those Christmassy-decorated cities. We’ve received the excursions, have you ever received your passport?

The post You Can’t Miss the Finest Christmas Markets in Europe 2019 appeared first on Tripstations.

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[journey-through-literature]

Enjoyment

Last year i had the opportunity to visit eight countries in six months. The one thing Spain, France, Italy, Monaco, Germany, Austria, Dominican Republic and USA have in common is enjoyment. In all eight countries, you can experience joy in the purest way. This entry is dedicated to my favorite experience in each of those countries. Retelling these experiences takes me feel enjoyment but a different type, the type thats filled with nostalgia

First stop on this journey: Madrid. My favorite part of Madrid was the Mercado San Miguel. Its this beautiful outdoor market with many small specialized kiosks that sell wine, cheese, croquetas, Spanish candy, olives, paella seafood and all those other yummy things. Theres live music and lots of laughter in the background. I can safely say that everyone there, was also experiencing joy.

Second Stop: Montmartre. Montmartre is a beautiful small town 30 minutes away from Paris, and although Paris is majestic, Montmartre is where you can get the best view of The Eiffel Tower, The Arc of Triumph and all those other beautiful Parisian sights. It also has this amazing cathedral decorated to the highest degree of elegance. I also found it curious how they sold beers right outside the cathedral so you could enjoy the view. And lets be honest, where theres beer, there’s also enjoyment.

Up Next: Capri. This was my favorite destination from my European trip. Capri is this tiny island off the coast of Naples. After a 45 minute boat trip, you arrive to this beautiful island with clear waters and lots of lemon trees. The locals are super nice and ready to spoil you. Their main export is lemons, so everything is lemon themed. I think this was my favorite place because being an island girl myself, this tiny island like mine made me feel at home away from home, and everybody feels happy at home

The fanciest stop is up next: Monaco. Monaco is everything you imagine it to be. Characterized by lavish lifestyles and celebrities, Monaco is a dream. My favorite place was Montecarlo. This casino was home to the fanciest prizes, cars and most famous celebrities. The streets literally sparkle. Its a place where you can live your princess fantasies from when you were a little girl, and princesses must be happily ever after.

After a very long ride: Deutschland. Germany was one of the coolest places I visited on my trip. My favorite part, was watching the 2018 World Cup among the World Cup title holders from 2014. Germans take their soccer very seriously. This game in particular wasn’t going well for them, they were losing and with exactly 2 minutes from overtime left...THEY SCORED THE WINNING GOAL! The crowd went wild. Shops started giving out free beer, pretzels and french fries topped with mayonnaise. Leaving mayonnaise aside, where there are french fries, there’s enjoyment.

Next stop: Austria. I only spent a day in Austria but this was enough to fall completely in love. On my short stay I got to try the most delicious Austrian pastry which was like a fluffy doughnut filled with apricot jam and my life has never been the same. Give me Austrian doughnuts or give me death!

Adding some latin flavor to this trip: Dominican Republic. I had been to the Dominican Republic many times before when I was about 7 years old, but now I could enjoy many more things. My favorite part of the trip was visiting Montaña Redonda in Miches. Getting there was an extreme adventure. I got into the back of an old pickup truck and drove up the most ridiculously bumpy road for about 20 minutes with my heart coming out of my chest the entire time. Once up the mountain, there was this beautiful swing set that gave the illusion as if you were swinging outside of the mountain into an abyss. Being on the swing like if I were a little girl again made me feel a nostalgic sense of joy.

Last stop: USA. Finishing my 2018 trip and entering 2019, I visited my family in Florida. The best part of my trip was not only reuniting with my family, but going on a road trip to Savannah, Georgia. Savannah is such a beautiful colonial town with cute little shops that made me feel so cozy and homey. We went to Leopold’s, a famous and antique ice cream parlor where I had the best blueberry cheesecake ice cream ever. The best part, was that I got to do this with family, which filled my heart with joy

Retelling these experiences made me go back as in a time warp to relive all these experiences and feel all these different types of joy in just a few minutes as I wrote this essay. This journey described not only my physical travels, but my emotional journeys and what I experienced throughout my eventful last 6 months of 2018.

[moviemanthraa-blog]

Interior bedroom design

Room Interior arrangement

What a view! Actually, only a blessed few can call an ocean receiving modern interior design ideas area their own. In any case, this room is not just about the view. As I might want to think it perfectly interprets what I call the key segments of viable room arrangement: clean lines apartment interior design and uncluttered surfaces in blend with warm materials, rich surfaces and quieting shades. Incorporate two or three pools of light room design ideas and you got yourself the perfect recipe for an agreeable refuge of loosening up. In this particular room they took it a further score up by including the segment of fire, making a truly concordant condition and faultless modify.

As to home complex design and room styling I like my space to portray an impeccable, fresh feel and give a fair breeze stream.

My room is the place I go to relax up and room interior decoration read and it's basic that the space partners with my thriving and slant. I cherish fair shaded rooms, with delicate family unit things and embellishments. Lighting and the inclination it gives is really goal and decorating bedroom I do endorse up to three different lighting focal concentrations house decorating styles inside a room, running from rooftop lights to bedside lights. It's in like manner interesting to play with an extensive variety of lights so you can have a choice of whether to have an unbelievable light on or Apartment interior designers in hyderabad   something gentler to suit your air. Cushions and hurls add character to a room and give different levels of surface which can make a room fantastic. I'm greatly inclined Villa interior decorators in hyderabad toward frail chic furniture in a room since it passes on an astoundingly nostalgic Parisian style.