still feeling french

It’s been seven days since I landed back in LA, but if you saw me double-cheek-kissing my besties, or spotted me sauntering down Abbot Kinney in ballet flats and a basket bag, you’d think I was still somewhere deep in the South of France. Which, spiritually speaking, I am. Something about that trip—those stuck-in-time, stone-walled villages, the scent of rosemary tangled with espresso, the rhythm of a life lived al fresco—got under my skin in a way that feels cellular. And honestly? I’m not trying to shake it. My mornings have adopted a distinctly French accent—unhurried walks, flaky croissants (shout out to Petitgrain Boulangerie for the closest thing to a proper pain au chocolat this side of the Seine), and a wardrobe that leans all the way into je ne sais quoi—undone hair, a whisper of red lipstick, and a steady rotation of Paris-based Sezane that makes me feel like I’m weaving through the cobblestones of Aix-en-Provence rather than the aisles of Erewhon. (The print linen mini and lace blouse I wore yesterday? Pure Villa La Coste energy.) And yes, I blasted Polo & Pan in the car yesterday. Windows down. Volume up.