Basic me.

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I came across this selfie when I was looking for photos of Marie Antoinette’s tomb in Paris, and as I found that I have equally important things to say about this outfit of mine, I shall postpone my article about Marie Antoinette’s last resort. So, instead of learning that Proust lived quite nearby, on the opposite side of the street actually, you learn about what I wore the day I went to see the tomb of France’s notorious queen. I actually never take selfies, but on this day, in the restroom of a bistrot next to Galerie Maeght and Deyrolle in St.Germain, I had to (although, is it a selfie if you leave your head out? Well, I had just visited the tomb of Marie Antoinette and let’s not forget she was beheaded, too), as I was wearing my favourite jacket, I’ve been wearing it day in, day out ever since the day I bought it at Hamburg’s Jil Sander flagship store, it’s from an autumn/winter collection when Raf Simons was still in charge. It’s been in the washing machine dozens of times, its zipper is mostly out of order, and if it works it gets stuck in the tiny pleat that frames the zipper, nice detail, nicely sewn, but not very intelligently placed, its only fault actually, but I wonder if Madame Bertin would have lost her head sooner than Marie Antoinette if she had ever confronted Sa Majesté with such thoughtlessness in tailoring, anyway, then there’s my favourite pair of jeans ever, the only one that I will really miss, from that frightful day on when they dissolve into thin air, Ralph Lauren will be invited to attend its funeral, and one of my many black crew neck cashmere pullovers, a cheap one, no logo, but their quality is actually the same, a white shirt, you only see its cuffs, I think it’s from Charvet, and my beloved Hermès scarf, 140 x 140 cm, silk and cotton, imprimeur fou, Les Clefs and some other iconic design printed on top of it (or the other way round). That’s it. Basic me. Tomorrow, I might wear the very same, so you won’t have any difficulties recognizing me in the streets.

Tea with Brigitte Macron.

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This gate to the Palais de l’Élysée’s spacious garden was of no great interest to my when I was last in Paris early this year, in late March, I think, by then, François Hollande was still residing there and I never cared much for him, I only really cared for Giscard d’Estaing who was in charge of France when I was a child, but now, a few months later, somebody else lives there, at 55, rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, now it’s the garden of Monsieur and Madame Emmanuel Macron and my feelings have totally changed, now I want to trespass, forcing the guards to let me in, invite myself in to have tea in the shade with Brigitte while chit-chatting and advising her on what to wear, I think there is still Platz nach oben, as one would put it in German, some room left for improvement, idioms never translate well but you know what I mean, she’s not Melania Trump, is she? Melania Trump is so well dressed, some outfits are real stunners, let’s be honest, she’s a stunner herself, and her red Dior suit, worn in Paris on Christian Dior’s birthday (or was it the day of his passing?) was just as brilliantly chosen as her pale blue Ralph Lauren ensemble on inauguration day or the black lace by Dolce & Gabbana she was wearing when meeting the Pope in the Vatican. But then again, Melania’s still Melania, however well dressed she might be, the woman is married to Trump, the petulant seventh-grader inhibiting the White House, I despise them both with every fibre of my being, so no, I better not tell Brigitte Macron what to wear, I’d rather ask her what I should wear, she definitely makes perfect choices as far as men and their style are concerned.