In my destitution of learning that my faithful curling iron had heated its last hair, I went in search of replacing my essential beauty tool. I was not excited at this prospect-although it did mark the grand occasion of buying a French appliance that wasn't a convertor. Upon much consideration, I decided to brave once of the most populated areas in Paris.
The BHV.
Quelle horreur! My previous purchases in this mega-department-store were nightmares. Searching for a pillow that wasn't a gigantic square (yet another French conundrum) or a rectangle of flaccid feathers was to be found on a floor that mixed 'bedroom' with 'lingerie/swimwear' and 'art supplies'. To find a simple convertor took a 45 minute underground tour in a veritable maze of anything you can possibly imagine that had to do with housework.
However because this is store is a literal bazaar (BHV: Bazaar de Hotel de Ville) I was certain that a curling iron was to be found.
Arriving on the floor that promised all things electrical I was dazzled-not by the abundance of hair supplies, but by each gleaming surface covered in kitchen wonderment. A wall of Pyrex, three full aisles of Le Creuset products, shiny pots and pans of every distinguished mark and happily-a customer service agent just for asking questions about knives.
All frustrations forgotten, I was in my dream kitchen, I meandered around contemplating the benefits of 'Tefal' versus 'Le Creuset, knives that never needed sharpening, found the perfect sautee pan and appreciated the sparkling splendor of the pyrex wall.
I realized, a solid 40 minutes later, that I had yet to purchase my curling iron and I was going to be late for my practice hour. So I scampered to buy my curling iron (apparently in France they don't believe in a girth larger than 1 inch) and hurried to my rehearsal thinking of non-stick cookware.
There might be a movie in the making:
Breakfast at BHV...there really isn't any place as lovely.
No comments:
Post a Comment