P A R I S . S Y N D R O M E

So, it's off to Paris on Friday. I love Paris. I love it's arrogance, it's protected language and their love of mutts. It's a city I've always found myself to be lucky in. Whether it's stumbling upon a kicks shop in Etienne Marcel that vacuum packed every shoe (takes 'fresh' to a new level) or meeting graff crew AKHK throwing up paint behind the Eiffel tower and making friends with the photographer, Richard Ross, who was doing a story on them for Boot Camp magazine. I've stood in line next to Karl Lagerfield and his army of chic monochrome dandies while I waited to buy my first taste of french hip-hop, DJ Koyote's Women Respond to Bass Vol. 2, in the uber trendy Colette.
Every time I go it gets better and I don't want this trip to be an exception, definitely Not like my mate Nadz recent Valentine experience.

It's safe to say I'm far beyond risk to falling victim to Paris Syndrome. I kid you not. Basically Paris is a gritty, dirty, rude city and not half as romantic as all those American chic flicks would make it out to be. It's more or less like any other western city. However some tourists, particularly the Japanese (20 a year to be exact), experience the distressing symptoms of this psychological illness. These symptoms include, dizziness, depression, anxiety and frustration (sounds like a day at work to me). It's brought on by the city not living up to the tourist's enchanting naive expectations. And, well, how could you blame them when there is preposterous shit like this being posted up on the Internet...


Granted it does pull a heart string or two but even I can tell this is nonsense. Although, Paris has duped me. On my last trip we visited Marché aux Puces de Clignancourt, the second hand market in Clignancourt, after a friend has raved about all the vintage gear she coveted. I don't know what wrong turn we took but we walked the length of hundreds of stalls selling knock of Nike Air's and dodgy trackies by vendors who looked like they were in Mafia K'1 Fry.