{"product_id":"a-paris-all-your-own-isbn-9780399574474","title":"A Paris All Your Own","description":"\u003cb\u003eA collection of all-new Paris-themed essays written by some of the biggest names in women’s fiction, including Paula McLain, Therese Anne Fowler, Maggie Shipstead, and Lauren Willig—edited by Eleanor Brown, the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Weird Sisters \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eThe Light of Paris\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“My time in Paris,” says \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e–bestselling author Paula McLain (\u003ci\u003eThe Paris Wife\u003c\/i\u003e), “was like no one else’s ever.” For each of the eighteen bestselling authors in this warm, inspiring, and charming collection of personal essays on the City of Light, nothing could be more true.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhile all of the women writers featured here have written books connected to Paris, their personal stories of the city are wildly different. Meg Waite Clayton (\u003ci\u003eThe Race for Paris\u003c\/i\u003e) and M. J. Rose (\u003ci\u003eThe Book of Lost Fragrances\u003c\/i\u003e) share the romantic secrets that have made Paris the destination for lovers for hundreds of years. Susan Vreeland (\u003ci\u003eThe Girl in Hyacinth Blue\u003c\/i\u003e) and J. Courtney Sullivan (\u003ci\u003eThe Engagements\u003c\/i\u003e) peek behind the stereotype of snobbish Parisians to show us the genuine kindness of real people. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom book club favorites Paula McLain, Therese Anne Fowler (\u003ci\u003eZ: A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald\u003c\/i\u003e), and anthology editor Eleanor Brown (\u003ci\u003eThe Light of Paris\u003c\/i\u003e) to mystery writer Cara Black (\u003ci\u003eMurder in the Marais\u003c\/i\u003e), historical author Lauren Willig (\u003ci\u003eThe Secret History of the Pink Carnation\u003c\/i\u003e), and memoirist Julie Powell (\u003ci\u003eJulie and Julia\u003c\/i\u003e), these Parisian memoirs range from laugh-out-loud funny to wistfully romantic to thoughtfully somber and reflective.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003ePerfect for armchair travelers and veterans of Parisian pilgrimages alike, readers will delight in these brand-new tales from their most beloved authors.\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eA Paris All Your Own\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“This collection from writers who have written about the city is enjoyable addition for readers who wish to travel to Paris or who enjoy travel essays...An engaging, delightful glimpse into female writers’ experiences in Paris.”—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“[A] lively assemblage…The essays offer tantalizing portraits of both the city's beauty and grit....What makes this collection a treat are the varying viewpoints about this singular city. Each story offers a unique vantage point for better understanding the history and culture of the cit....A quick and fun read that should delight seasoned travelers as well as those planning their first adventure.”—\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eEleanor Brown \u003c\/b\u003eis the author of \u003ci\u003eThe Light of Paris\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Weird Sisters\u003c\/i\u003e. Her writing has been published in anthologies, magazines, and journals. She holds an M.A. in Literature and has worked in education in South Florida.Thirteen Ways of      Looking at a French Woman\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e J. Courtney Sullivan\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I. 1987\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It begins, like all things, with my mother.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In our suburban Massachusetts neighborhood, full of Irish      Catholics who throw block parties and summer cookouts, she      believes that, in her heart, she is French. She collects Quimper      pottery, wears silk scarves with the confidence of a native      Parisian, and spritzes Chanel N5 on the dog after a bath.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Her passion is inherited from her own mother, my grandmother, who      to me seems every bit as glamorous as Catherine Deneuve. She      subscribes to W, and when she's collected enough back issues, she      bags them up and brings them over to our house. My grandmother is      known for being the first person ever to jog in her neighborhood,      long before there was such a thing as jogging attire-she did it in      a trench coat. She goes into the city to get her hair done at a      proper salon that costs a fortune instead of at some underwhelming      beauty parlor closer to home. She, too, believes that French women      are superior to us, not that she knows any French women. Her      portals to that world are fashion magazines and Julia Child, whom      she watches religiously on television, absorbing Child's thoughts      on butter and wine, filling notebooks with her recipes. Notebooks      we will find and cherish after my grandmother is gone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e II. 1996\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In high school French class, we watch the movies Red, White, and      Blue, Kielowski's Three Colors trilogy. On my own, I watch Before      Sunrise approximately ninety-seven times. I want to be Juliette      Binoche and Julie Delpy in equal measure, even though they are      nothing alike. They are both French. Seemingly effortless in their      beauty. Strong and commanding and flawlessly dressed, even at      life's most depressing moments. I have that sense that if I just      study them enough, I might become them through osmosis. I am      fifteen. Nothing my mother does could possibly please me. But I      realize that on this one point, she was correct: French women are      spectacular in every way.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I love the language. I love my French teacher, who tells us one      day, \"Joy is happiness with no strings attached.\" Later, when      almost all my French is forgotten, I will remember this.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e III. 2001\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I announce that I plan to take a year off from college, horrifying      my mother. I want to write and see the world. I would love to      spend the year in France, but I don't have the guts, or the      confidence for the language. I am twenty and I have never been      outside the United States. As if to put a fine point on my      naivetŽ, I declare that I will either move to London, or to      Orlando, Florida, where I'll be employed at Disney World as part      of a student work program. The program offers all kinds of      positions. Some people even get to dress up as characters, perform      in shows. I apply and am granted the job of fry cook. And so I      choose London, where I work first as an intern at a literary      agency, and later as a nanny for a family with three boys under      the age of two.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I tell my friend Kirsty at the agency about my love of Paris, my      urge to go. She says she knows Americans are crazy about it, but      the place doesn't hold such allure for the English. Paris is for      quick weekend jaunts, bachelorette parties, that sort of thing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e One long weekend, I finally go, and stay with a friend who is      studying abroad there. We last saw each other at our casual      college in the middle of nowhere, a place where pajama pants were      considered appropriate dinner attire. But now I find that the city      and all its glamor have made an impact on her. She is living as a      lodger in the home of a Parisian book editor in the 16th      arrondissement. She skips lunch each day and saves up to buy a      Louis Vuitton clutch instead. (Though she confesses that once, in      a fit of homesickness, she devoured a Big Mac. When she tells the      story, she does not call McDonald's \"McDonald's.\" She calls it, in      perfectly accented French, McDo. Somehow even fast food seems more      glamorous here.)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e This is it. At last. The Paris the women of my family have been      dreaming about forever. I am the first of us to reach it. I get my      picture taken in front of the Eiffel Tower but to my surprise I      can't manage to feel much for it. I have seen too many pictures,      maybe, imagined it too many times. I had a stronger reaction to      Brussels a month before, perhaps because I never had a single      expectation for Brussels.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My friend and I rush through the Louvre and Pre Lachaise like      commuters at Penn Station. She is a generous host, but she has      seen all this already. What she really wants to do is what      everyone our age in every city wants to do-go out, get drunk, meet      boys. Who am I to argue?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I watch French women on the train, in the shops, sitting outside      at sidewalk cafŽs. It is true, what I've always believed about      their beauty, their style. It's a code I want to crack, though I      don't actually converse with a single French person, except for a      passing hello to the book editor, and a boy I kiss at a bar, also      more or less in passing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The next morning, as I board the Eurostar back to London, a text      message appears: I kiss you, I love you, I remember you all my      life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It is ridiculous, over-the-top. A cartoon of what a Frenchman      might say. I keep it like a souvenir until the phone is lost.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e IV. 2004\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e After graduation, I move to New York to become a writer. My first      job is as an assistant at a beauty magazine, where I am a total      fish out of water. But I find that everyone in this world worships      French women as much as I do. I interview photographers and      stylists. Their inspirations for looks are always French women      from several decades ago. Brigitte Bardot, Anouk AimŽe.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Between student loan debt and the rent on a shared shoe-box      apartment, I am well aware that I'm too poor to even think about      visiting Paris again any time soon. I go there in books. Books I      really like, like Adam Gopnik's Paris to the Moon. Books I love,      like Diane Johnson's Le Divorce. Silly books about beauty secrets      that I take from the communal shelf at work after everyone else      has gone home. Chief among them: French Women Don't Get Fat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I don't read this as a guide, hoping to become the things I find      in its pages. I read it like I am Margaret Mead watching the      Samoans, or an alien just landing on planet Earth and taking a      look around. I have nothing in common with the women described in      the book, much as I admire them. I wear Nikes to the office. Not      even ballet flats. I am an impossibly bad dresser. Though I spend      my days writing about makeup, I don't really know how to apply it.      I have, in fact, gotten a little bit fat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e V. 2007\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I get a job at the New York Times, doing research for an opinion      columnist. I start writing for the paper, too. On the weekends, I      work on my novel. The tools I use during the week seep into my      fiction. I like to create a character not from nothing, but by      building the emotions and the unknowable on top of what can be      known. I want to get the details just right. So when I write a      worm farmer, I interview worm farmers. Dollhouse aficionados and      paramedics get the same treatment.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It is a total thrill, getting to peer into other people's worlds.      The best part of the job.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e VI. 2010\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My first novel, Commencement, is published. One day I get an      e-mail from an editor in Paris named Marie. She wants to know if      her small publishing house can have the French rights to the book.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There are agents to consult at moments like this. Negotiations to      be made. But picture it: My book in French. I reply right away.      Yes, of course Marie can have the rights.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e VII. 2010\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Nearly a decade after my first trip to Paris, I get to go back. My      boyfriend Kevin and I are house-sitting for friends in London, and      we make a quick three-night detour to the City of Light. This      time, I am determined to do it right. To see everything important,      all the sights.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A year earlier, my mother finally got her chance to go. I ask her      for travel tips and we copy her itinerary more or less to the      letter. She warns us not to try to do everything. Enjoy it, move      at a leisurely pace. But instead, we try to do everything. As with      that first glimpse of the Eiffel Tower years earlier, we find that      there is far less joy in the expected attractions than there is in      the surprises-our hotel in the Latin Quarter, built on the remains      of a thirteenth-century abbey; a party we stumble upon in the      grand courtyard of an art school, the students dancing and singing      and showcasing their work. But some of the expected places are      incredible too. Versailles astonishes me. I could stay at the      piano bar at the H™tel de Crillon for weeks. I think of how beauty      is such an important part of everyday life in Paris in a way it is      not in New York, as we sit in the Luxembourg Gardens and watch      children eating ice cream carved into the shape of flowers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We are, decidedly, tourists. As evidenced by the thick      blue-and-yellow copy of Rick Steves Paris that we carry everywhere      we go. A few times a day, I glimpse someone else carrying this      book, and we smile bashfully at each other, found out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The taxi drivers can't understand my attempts at French. They      switch to English seconds after I open my mouth. I am kind of      relieved getting back to London, a city that has never seemed      intimidating to me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e VIII. 2012\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Commencement is released in France and becomes a bestseller there.      In French, it is called Les Debutantes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I am beginning a new novel, my third, called The Engagements. From      the start, I know that one of the main characters will be a      glamorous Parisian woman. A woman I will never be, but have always      admired from afar.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I begin by interviewing Parisian transplants to Boston and New      York. I ask them everything. One of the things I cherish most      about being a writer is this: If you were just to say to a person,      \"Tell me everything about yourself,\" they might balk. But if you      say, \"I am a writer, tell me so that I can make a story from it,\"      they will almost always do it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The women I talk to make excellent subjects because they've lived      in both worlds. I decide my character will be the same. A Parisian      transplant to New York, so that I can see what my own city looks      like through her eyes. I give her a name. Delphine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My interview subjects mention the small irritations of American      life-too much air-conditioning, the ubiquity of Starbucks. And big      ones, too-how strangers cling to false familiarity, making      promises to get together again, but never keeping them. Helicopter      parents. The gym-obsessed. The way, at dinner parties, people tend      to pair off and talk to only one person instead of having a lively      group discussion.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The things they miss most include good bread, Avene Hydrance      Optimale face cream. French Elle. Paris Match.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I learn that in their kitchens in Paris, there are always cubes      instead of grains in the sugar bowl. That pastis is never kept in      the fridge. That as a term of endearment, one's mother might call      one mon tourterelle, \"my turtledove.\" They tell me that in Paris,      if you meet someone for coffee but don't feel like the caffeine,      you might order a citron pressŽ-lemonade. They tell me of a French      wedding tradition in which a bride and groom hide in a broom      closet, waiting to be found by their guests.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I want to know Delphine's Paris. It seems only responsible to      return there for research. Kevin comes with me again. We are      recently engaged. I know exactly where I want to go-Montmartre and      the rue Cler, the two neighborhoods I have decided will be most      important to Delphine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Through a company called Paris Walks, I hire a private guide,      Brad, who takes us around Montmartre, where he lives. I have been      before, but now I notice new things. A luthier's shop with violins      hanging in the window. A small vineyard that was tended by      Benedictine monks in the twelfth century. The old tabacs turned      late-night grocery stores run by North African immigrants. The      astonishing view of Paris from the outdoor tables at Chez      Pommette. The artist studios built high up in the garrets of old      houses, where the light is best. An ivy-covered brick house on rue      Cauchois, with tall white shutters and bright red geraniums in the      window boxes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Before, in Paris, I was always self-conscious. Did I sound like a      stupid American? Was my accent atrocious? But in the role of      writer, I'm too curious to care.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Kevin and I go to hear a violin soloist play in the ƒglise de      Saint-Germain-des-PrŽs. We stumble upon a summer carnival at the      edge of the Tuileries Gardens late one night-at picnic tables,      people eat crpes and cotton candy, and drink wine. Children jump      on trampolines and scream with mock terror on the rides.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e On a Sunday morning, we go to a bustling outdoor market beneath      the elevated train tracks on the boulevard de Grenelle. Fruit      merchants sell enormous tomatoes and eggplant, ripe cherries,      artichokes, seven different kinds of mushrooms. One stall has      thirty kinds of olives in wooden bins, and any herb or nut you      could imagine. There are men selling fish and meat, all of it      displayed beautifully, presentation as important as quality. At a      fromagerie, a father-daughter pair offers two dozen wheels of      cheese, which they slice and wrap in pale blue paper. Flower      stalls burst with roses and calla lilies. I eat three tiny      beignets while I watch old ladies do their shopping for the week.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e This is the trip on which I fall in love with Paris. Not Paris as      I'd imagined it, but Paris as it is.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e IX. 2012\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I write all of Delphine's chapters in a small guest bedroom at      Kevin's mother's house in Des Moines, Iowa. It's about as      un-Parisian a setting as you can get, but the memories are fresh      and I can transport myself there in an instant.","brand":"G.P. 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