The feeling of the breeze on my bare back as I cross the Seine, the secret smirk I smile as Parisians shake their heads at my chest, a real tan that merged with a fake layer from last night just right. I love summer in Spain, in fact there is no where I’d rather be – but a few days here or there from June to August in Paris is a release from the intense heat at home by the sea. I’m also usually tanner than everyone else and wearing far too few clothes, but that’s okay because I’m not Parisian. I’m a faux-Parisian, a once trying to be Parisian – an American who lived in Paris, which is essentially a carte blanche for breaking all the rules that silently rule the styles of the streets. Not that I ever followed them while I did live here. Usually the more dramatic the response I receive from Parisians, the more I enjoy the outfit. No eye rolls or head shakes means my ensemble is basically boring. So, I’ll toss my hair around and accessorize my bare back with my favourite accessory: no bra. I’ll do it over and over again. Because I’m not Parisian, because I like what I wear and that’s all that matters- every hair flick is a flash of my self-appointed free pass to wear whatever the hell I want wherever I am. Half a boob poking out, socks that don’t match, two prints that clash – a dress too short or a blazer too fitted…with me, anything goes.