So, now I am curious really - how many pretty women does Paris accommodate at any point in time? I am sure that Paris in spring and summer will be teeming with the aggregated beauty of visitors from the Americas, rest of Europe, Australasia, Africa, and maybe even a couple of thousand of the most beautiful extraterrestrials. After all, who in this universe is untouched by the seductive charms of gay Paree, its boulevards, cafés [‘only French spoken here’ arrogant waiters included], bridges over the Seine and a million other flirtatious nuances? And, I have not even begun to factor in the towering charms of the Eiffel and a day trip to Versailles yet.
Is this for real, or has the French PR machine really cracked the code for national charme ending fabulously with the globally televised seduction of one Ms Bruni by a Mr. Sarkozy? The theory then is that all beautiful women live in Paris, will ultimately live in Paris, or that, essentially, all beautiful women are Parisian at heart. But, excuse-moi, this is supposed to be about French women and this chain of thought was triggered by a weekend viewing of Midnight in Paris. So the choice is ours to make – either a million more astoundingly beautiful women inhabit Paris than any other city in the world, or 5 more stunningly elegant women live in Woody Allen’s monde cinematique than in any other Director’s world. Possibly both are equally true – Woody Allen’s world I have been to, and met Mia, Diane, Julia and lately Scarlett, often. Paris, I haven’t had the pleasure of visiting but every postcard, picture, documentary and movie set in Paris reflects the abundance of a certain appeal that makes other capitals wilt in comparison.
The myth of the Parisian feminine allure maybe fuelled by the fact that renaissance painters from France were better than their Italian and Dutch peers, and therefore, made Frenchwomen seem prettier. [The English, unfortunately, preferred painting flowers and pastoral scenes – but more on the English Rose in later posts]. Returning sailors during World War II were captured on camera for posterity kissing unsuspecting women in Paris – not Amsterdam, or Rome, or London mind you. And Fashion Weeks may happen from Gurgaon to Guangzhou but till those stilettos go clickety-click on a Paris ramp it’s not officially fashionable yet! So Paris, and by extension France, may seem to be a prettier place because of its mademoiselles et madams, or this may be a Grande illusion conjured up by a team of French spin doctors over the past few centuries. [I have it from anthropologists of repute that, though distinctly more appealing than the male of the species, pre historic ladies were pretty Neanderthal uniformly across the globe].
Anyway, I haven’t travelled a more appealing train of thought in a while - and the destination will need to wait till I return from Paris, or see more Woody Allen films, or both.
Is this for real, or has the French PR machine really cracked the code for national charme ending fabulously with the globally televised seduction of one Ms Bruni by a Mr. Sarkozy? The theory then is that all beautiful women live in Paris, will ultimately live in Paris, or that, essentially, all beautiful women are Parisian at heart. But, excuse-moi, this is supposed to be about French women and this chain of thought was triggered by a weekend viewing of Midnight in Paris. So the choice is ours to make – either a million more astoundingly beautiful women inhabit Paris than any other city in the world, or 5 more stunningly elegant women live in Woody Allen’s monde cinematique than in any other Director’s world. Possibly both are equally true – Woody Allen’s world I have been to, and met Mia, Diane, Julia and lately Scarlett, often. Paris, I haven’t had the pleasure of visiting but every postcard, picture, documentary and movie set in Paris reflects the abundance of a certain appeal that makes other capitals wilt in comparison.
The myth of the Parisian feminine allure maybe fuelled by the fact that renaissance painters from France were better than their Italian and Dutch peers, and therefore, made Frenchwomen seem prettier. [The English, unfortunately, preferred painting flowers and pastoral scenes – but more on the English Rose in later posts]. Returning sailors during World War II were captured on camera for posterity kissing unsuspecting women in Paris – not Amsterdam, or Rome, or London mind you. And Fashion Weeks may happen from Gurgaon to Guangzhou but till those stilettos go clickety-click on a Paris ramp it’s not officially fashionable yet! So Paris, and by extension France, may seem to be a prettier place because of its mademoiselles et madams, or this may be a Grande illusion conjured up by a team of French spin doctors over the past few centuries. [I have it from anthropologists of repute that, though distinctly more appealing than the male of the species, pre historic ladies were pretty Neanderthal uniformly across the globe].
Anyway, I haven’t travelled a more appealing train of thought in a while - and the destination will need to wait till I return from Paris, or see more Woody Allen films, or both.
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