Break from Hiatus

I’ve spiffed up my blog again (i.e. changing the theme and adding a header with my anonymized quads by the English seaside). I was fiercely loyal to a fashion-focused Instagram account during the interim,  but quite simply got bored of looking at myself. Rest assured, this will still be a crevice of the internet for one girl’s style and the selfies that entails, but I’ll make it more of a variety show.

I had to take an Insta-break after exploring my own love-hate in an article I wrote for Thought Catalog. But in the interest of catching up, here’s a series of snapshots from this summer:

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Rennes and St. Malo

Rennes, arrival 

There should be a word for that feeling when one sees a familiar face after a day of being shuffled around with massive amounts of complete strangers. Relief comes close. Hugo picked me up at the Rennes airport after my 18 hours of travel. It had been an awkward ballet of failed sleeping positions with no intermission.

He took me to the apartment where I’d be staying, which used to be a suite in a very old hotel right next to the city center. I spent the afternoon fighting off jet lag, reading and touring Rennes on foot.

For a day, I felt sick to my stomach and could barely eat anything. I slowly replaced my bloodstream with Coca-Cola Light (suspicious of the tap water by this point) and some God-given medicine called “Spasmocalm.”

Sounds dumb, but really: It hits like a drug, the realization of how far away I was from anything I knew.

 

St. Malo, beach

There is so much mica that the beach looks like two parts sand to one part glitter. Rows of algae coated tree trunks stand ready to break breaking waves that could wash over the street. The ocean is freezing, but it’s a welcome jolt after the long walk from the only quasi-legal parking spot left thanks to hoards of French folks ready to bask in the high temperatures.

Vintage sunglasses and earrings, A wear sweater, American Apparel shorts, Bisou Bisou bikini

 

Seagulls swoop, I read a few chapters of Into the Wild, get covered in sand and freckles, etc.

I wish I could claim responsibility for this sand fortress.

In the time it takes to walk into the city, peruse shops, eat two crepes (one crispy, with finely chopped vegetables wrapped in a black flour pancake, one sweet with a caramel unique to the Brittany region), and saunter along stone walkways, the shoreline has receded 50 meters, accommodating more sun bathers.

If the sea can come so close to lapping at the city streets, only to take it all back, I’ll be a little fickle, too.

Fort St. Pere, music festival

La Route Du Rock has a pretty great set-up. The music runs from about 6 p.m. to 3 a.m. Who shows up to these things at noon, anyway? It helps that noise ordinances mustn’t have been too strict at the makeshift venue, which was accessible by long dirt roads through wheat fields. The camping area had rental huts with locks available to patrons with interests such as sex and not being stolen from. The first few hours were shadeless and therefor kind of miserable. I heard it would be cold here. The first band is some bad electro group that America back-washed. In fact, all the music (except for an excessive set by Dominique A) is in English. Alt-J puts on the best show.

Here’s some good footage from Rennes TV, though I can always do without musicians denying they have a genre and analyzing the “internet age.”

 

Between sets, I affectionately watch the interactions of a group of drunk teenagers. The most outgoing girl kisses everyone, but saves the public make-out session for the boy she (presumably) likes most. They grope in a sunny, open area right by the stage. I’m smiling to myself, but the next time I look over, a visibly wasted girl has taken their place and is trying to vomit with the disturbingly involved encouragement of two friends. Maybe 18 is a bit young for the legal drinking age, after all.

As soon as the sun sets, it gets very cold and I can’t ignore how exhausted I feel. A photographer comes by. I smile broadly because I like the idea of looking ecstatic in a French magazine I’ll never see.

Target Practice

Dears sons o’ bitches, a.k.a. Target superstores,
I didn’t think a mass retailer would need to have supply and demand explained to them. I also didn’t think this dreamy Liberty of London bicycle would sell out by the afternoon of the very first day it was available. You don’t just manufacture, like, 5 of such adorable, old school, flower-covered cruisers at a price that‘s $500 more sane than other comparably stylish models . And you claim to bring affordable style to the suburbs of America? How about you make a $5 donation to Haitian earthquake victims before the giving spirit wears off. And before my social sensitivity comes back.

“Garla” Ladies Cruiser, $199.99 (target.com)
Come on, Target, you’re not Zanzan  (a brand selling sunglasses that are more expensive than bikes but have no transportation abilities…and they’re only making 300 pairs of each style). Exclusivity of merchandise should correlate directly to price point or difficulty of mass production…otherwise, it’s just irritating. When I saw a girl at a recent She and Him concert wearing a vintage leather jacket with a wonderously kitsch wolf painted on the back, I sighed for what would never be mine. When I saw this temptress of a bicycle, I thought, “Hey, I could totally buy that.” Wrong. Speaking of She and Him, I bet Zooey DesChanel couldn’t even get her hands on one of these. And it was practically made in her image.

At least I snapped up the 2nd best offering from the Liberty of London collaboration: this bathing suit.

The peacock feather print is trendy, but the cut feels old Hollywood and is ridiculously flattering. It’s been a holy grail of mine (except one that I don’t care that much about) for the past couple years to find a one-piece that’s not solely designed for those of advanced age, pooch, athletic team affiliation, or Mormonism. This baby gives strapless suits having “a bad name” a bad name, but comes with attachable straps anyway! Plus: SOFT fabric (wha?), no chicken fat (muffin top of the boob/armpit area common with tube tops), and it’s one of the few things that work better on short girls.  Go out and buy it! Oh wait, it’s sold out.