December 2011; HOTEL DE LA TREMOILLE, 14 rue de la Trémoille – 75008 Paris, Tel. : +33 (0)1 56 52 14 00, reservation@hotel-tremoille.com

The 7:30am Eurostar train smells of musk, newspapers and coffee, the second class cabin seats are bustling with men in suits, lodged expertly in positions that ensure least creasing on their trousers. I stand out in my plaid shirt and dark skinny Levi’s, knitting needles in each sleeve and balancing a coffee formula with a little too much milk. The bloke next to me glances occasionally at the snood factory, and flutters open his newspaper to wave off the fluff. It’s a food-trip to Paris for work, and I’m to meet Sophie at 11 o’ clock for brunch at the Rose Bakery on Rue des Martyrs. The train pulls into a foggy opening of Gare du Nord and the doors slide open to spill out the passengers and L‘Eau du businessmen; the morning wind is scratchy but there’s a glow of orange on the roofs. The taxi driver attempts slurred English and ends up ranting in French, and I say ‘Wee, wee, wee’ throughout the ride to the hotel, I think I might’ve said yes to ‘I think I’ll have a Jambon sandwich today’ but I’m not too sure. We weave past Champs Élysées, a strikingly clear view of the Eiffel and the glitter-clad Avenue Montaigne, and I wonder if I’d also accidentally agreed to a mini taxi-tour of Paris and fumble at my phone (comme dictionary), but apparently that’s the supreme location of Hôtel de la Trémoille. My bag is hailed away, straight from the taxi boot to the porter’s desk, and I’m received in a Haussmanninan foyer, complete with wrought-iron doors and rich velvet drapes.

The diffused lights from the enclosed balcony illuminates the room to a dawn-like glow, and as the receptionist flicks the lightswitch on I realise it’s massive, hardly the size of a standard room. There are two doors to the room, but one is a privacy hatch, accessible from the inside so that the breakfast deliverer isn’t assaulted with a door-full of bedhead and morning breath. The bathroom is colourful with Molton Brown liquid and I momentarily confuse myself C (Chaud = Hot) tap as the English short for Cold, and dip my hands into scalding hot water. And what do you know, a box of Ladurée macarons as a welcome gift on the bed. I rush out to meet Sophie but glad that at the end of the day I can come back to this.

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Hôtel de la Trémoille is offering a Valentine’s package until the end of February, including an evening of Maison Kaviari’s l’en-K de Caviar© with a bubbly to share with a significant other, and a tailored culinary walk with guides around the area. Check their official website for more information.

Thank you Hôtel de la Trémoille for the hospitality & Mango PR for the organization.

Florence, Lungarno Collection Suites; Patrizia Pepe show & dinner; Boboli Gardens; Jacket – Zara, tropical cardigan – COS, Fluffy skirt – Topshop, Jeans – C/O Raw Denim Bar, shoes - Chloe Sevigney x Opening Ceremony

Dear Florence,

May I call you Flo? I feel like you and I are buddies already and I’ve only really seen you twice; well I did Google you a few times but don’t we all nowadays? I also have a flattering pic of you in my phone, but surely that’s not creepy… Yes sure, I can call you Ms. Florence Italy.

The first time I met you with the hubby I remember we tried to find somewhere nice to eat off the beaten track, maybe a snug little trattoria that’s slightly tacky but one run by an old man the locals call papa and knows the secret to every pasta dish. Of course, we took that wrong (or right? we’ll never know) turn and ended up redrawing your maps for 4 hours before we gave up and ate in the hotel (that we somehow managed to locate). So the next time I saw you, courtesy of the lovely Patrizia Pepe‘s invitation, I knew the streets and landmarks as if I’ve been living there for 20 years. Alas, I was also able to concentrate on other lovely features of yours: the beautiful nose bridge you call Ponte Vecchio and a very well groomed garden called Boboli down south.

I do wish to see you again soon. Perhaps when the weather is warmer, a down-jacket in a suitcase to Italy is what the fashion girls call soo-not-in.

Gotta Boogie,
Shini

p.s You have really weird street system.

[Rings shot] Toolsis Cocktail Ring via Boticca; True Birds Leaf Ring, Courtney Kaye Cocktail Ring,  Michelle Oh Twig Solitaire Ring via Boticca; [Outfit on stairs] Zara Coat; Uniqlo Top & Trousers, Sam Edelman Booties; Kurt Geiger Clutch;  [Outfit 'red Jeans'] Goldsign Jeans, Coach Bag, Zara Hat, Topshop Boots;

Taking into account that my social skills resemble that of a blind hamster… oh that reminds me, my neighbour now purposefully avoids me after the few occasions I couldn’t grow a pair (of melons, what are you thinking) to say ‘hi’ in the narrow corridor so each time I pretended to be temporarily blind and deaf before shuffling past. Ah, there’s also that time I was giving a uni presentation and thanks to my scrambled nerves (or deadly toxins from the product design studios, not certain) I was known to speak in tongues. (and thus helped the overly abstract project to be even more convincing! (not really)) Anyhow, taking ALL THAT into account and looking back, an event like Firenze4Ever seems sadly not my cup of tea. Granted, I had fun with the girls and a blast trekking Florence with the hubby, but when you put too many world-famous bloggers in one room it’s inevitable that those lesser known (and socially awkward) will eventually end up benchwarming in the sidelines. It reminded me a bit of highschool with all the cliques and gossips, so the hubby and I did what we did best back then, slipped away unnoticed and made out in the bike shed…

Thank you Luisa Via Roma for the invitation & hubby for the photos