I would like to preface this post with an acknowledgement that I have no legs to stand on in my commentary. I am far from fashion plate. That being said...
Perhaps it's the extended stay in Mother Europe that warped my born-and-bred Californian perspective, or some kind of deep-rooted desire for structure, but think it's a bummer that there seem to be no more dress codes. While this is the norm out West ("down with the New Upper Class and their despisal of white after labor day! I will wear sneakers to the office and tattoos will be a prerequisite for employment!"), it surprised me to find that in Paris, things were not so different.
I suppose this in somewhat unfair... In Paris I lived mostly in the lands of the hipster bohemes, who peered over their espressos and cigarettes with a fashion-eye towards London. Their jeans were expertly worn and their vintage clothing was often Hermes and YSL and had real fur and I'm pretty sure they had it all dry-cleaned, but it was calculatedly cool. Very "what, this old thing?". In the other, more western parts of town things remain brand-new Chanel suits and Vuitton bags, sky-high shoes and various thousand-euro takes on the Little Black Dress. So I'm not saying San Francisco and Paris have converged on the plane of vestimental theory. But there are some commonalities to bemoan, and some puzzling discrepancies.
When I first came to France as more than a toddler, on a monthlong visit in the summer of 1995, my father warned me. He looked me up and down and said they dressed... different there. I didn't really get it until I arrived in Nice and, while I slept off my jet lag, my grandmother filtered out and hid the clothing she deemed inappropriate for my international coming-out. Gone were my docs, my overalls and plaid men's shirts and the baggy jeans with the fabric panels sewn down the sides. Mamie was not having any of that California laxness in her house. She then took adolescent me shopping for flowing bright-patterned silk pants, a pinstripe tailored suit and a light classic raincoat, among other things I must have burned when I came back home as I am sad to say I can no longer find them.
When I moved to France in 2003, things were much the same. Christmas in Toulouse was a flurry of champagne corks and cufflinks, gold jewelry and aprons worn over gorgeous dark floral prints. Mamie whispered in my ear then too, nixing what she termed revealing necklines, but she wasn't the only one. My cousin Stephan, when we went out for (what is apparently traditional) Christmas-eve clubbing told me he wasn't sure I was going to be able to get in. "You know, the first thing they look at is your shoes."
And yet, going to the opera, or the ballet, or the theater seems to do nothing at all to the French. I suppose I should say the Parisians. I once went to a first-run of the Sellars-Viola production of Tristan and Isolde and found myself seated between one couple in black tie and another in jeans. The tourists in the rush seats were in shorts. I was confused. If you don't dress up for the opera, what do you dress up for?
The answer, it seemed, was jogging. I used to go out wearing whatever I could get my hands on, lots of it or very little depending on the season, but nothing that was particularly attractive. I would stop at a traffic light or a moving bridge, red in the face and sweating through my T-shirt and 49ers hat. People waiting with me would politely ignore, and the other occasional jogging Miss in velour sweatsuit or a sports bra that matched her shoes or the collar on her tiny dog would raise her eyebrow at me. "You leave your house in THAT?"
Now, running through Golden Gate Park I have no fear or self-consciousness. There are people just as shabby as me huffing down those paths. There are also people napping half-hidden in hollowed out tree trunks, but that is a different story. As far as clothing goes, there doesn't seem to be much restriction at all. I have been to two weddings in the last couple of years where the entire groom's party wore sneakers, and I must have seem thousands of photos of cowboy boots under white gowns.
I went out for drinks and dinner with an old friend the other day, steering him away from the upscale fast food place that opened in Mill Valley and towards a tavern with outdoor seating and black-clad waitstaff. On the walk from the car, he mentioned something about hoping he wasn't underdressed. But inside, sitting at a white-tablecloth for two, was a dude in track pants and a woman in a crisp peter-pan collar. I guess the mix makes the mix. Still, maybe I'm lazy, but I would like a little more warning. I wore strappy heels to an art opening, but it was in Olema (farmland/winecountry) and so everyone else was in flip flops. I wore jeans to a comedy show and everyone else was in buttoned shirts and sweet swinging dresses. I might just go the way of a friend back in France, restrict all my wardrobe to the cuts of various black dresses and add the occasional swanky coat or bright tights. LBD LBD.
This is not to say that there are no restrictions and no judgements (I mean, really, this isn't Berlin). My brother often remarks on my Mom jeans. I have nothing to retort, having adopted them directly out of Mom's closet, but it stings a little coming from someone wearing a stocking cap. It is a stylish stocking cap though. That seems to be the underlying rule, regardless of the location: if you are going casual, go stylish casual. In the Bay Area though, you can't look like you're trying. In Paris, you can't look like you're not.
