Kathryn Kemp-Griffin - Paris Undressed: The Secrets of French Lingerie

What a thrill it is to share this page in the privileged company of those who helpedme find the language and expression for Paris Undressed. In their honour, I haveopened a bottle of champagne. Please join me in raising a glass in celebration.

To Jami Bernard at Barncat Publishing for guiding me with wit and unwavering patiencefrom my first written word on June 4, 2007, to my last page. Every writer deservesyou in their corner. Your vision and clarity aside, the best part of all this hasbeen walking beside you as your friend.

To Anita Bryant and Melissa Crabbins for your committment to being kind yet honestreaders week after week and year after year.

To Meredith Dees, for seeing something more in this manuscript and taking a riskdespite resistance from one very uncertain writer. This book is better because ofyou. To Sarah MacLachlan and the entire team at House of Anansi for undertaking thisunique project.

To Paloma Casile for the delightful illustrations and pouring your soul and talentinto everything you make.

To Madame Annabelle, Gentry de Paris, Ghislaine Rayer, and Julia Palombe for sharingthe secrets of your sensuality and showing me how to have fun with mine.

To Stphane de Bourgies for my author photo and for capturing a black-and-white momentin time.

To all the lingerie designers for their passion and graciously sharing their creativityand knowledge.

To Olivier Noyon for providing exquisite Leavers lace samples from the archives ofNoyon Dentelle.

To Docteur Thierry Leonard for your wisdom and gentle kindness.

To Briony, Owen, Sinclair, Mackenzie, and Fiona for being the best cheerleading squad.

And to Christian, for being there to help me get dressed and undressed.

Merci.

KATHRYN KEMP-GRIFFIN is a journalist and entrepreneur. She has beenliving in Paris and working in the lingerie industry since 1990. She started herown lingerie company, Soyelle, which specialized in accessories and beauty products,before founding Paris Lingerie Tours the ultimate luxury rendezvous for helpingwomen fulfill their lingerie dreams. In 2009, she founded Pink Bra Bazaar, a charitableorganization dedicated to breast health education and supporting women with breastcancer. Born in Canada, she lives in an old millhouse outside of Paris with her husband,five children, and assorted pets.

PALOMA CASILE designs an eponymous line of lingerie. She graduated top ofherclassfrom ESMOD Paris, the oldest fashion school in the world. She apprenticedinhousessuch as Chantal Thomass and Cadolle before winning the lingerie prize attheDinardFestival of Young Fashion Designers. She lives in Paris.

Paris. Paris. There is something silken and elegant about that word, something carefree,somethingmadefor a dance, something brilliant and festive, like champagne. Everything thereisbeautiful,gay, and a little drunk, and festooned with lace.

Nina Berberova

Paris is a city that takes its time especially when youre in a hurry.

Tourists blame the Parisians, Parisians blame the tourists, and everybody blamesthe traffic. Or the strikes. Or the holidays. Despite the finger-wagging, however,there is tolerance and delight in the City of Light for those who learn to expectthe unexpected. Paris is a celebration of unhurried time, an invitation to discoverand tease your senses. Like a kiss at dawn that longs for nightfall, Paris is bestlived not by tallying what you pack into a day, but by what you manage to stretchout over the course of it.

Paris is a small big city. Geographically speaking, it occupies only 105 squarekilometres of the earths surface, which is not much compared to other major citiesand popular tourist destinations. New York is eight times larger, and London andBangkok both sprawl over fifteen times the space. In terms of population, the twomillion inhabitants in the French capital pales in comparison to the more than eightmillion in each of those three other cities.

But small numbers add up. Rather, they multiply exponentially, placing Paris highon the population density charts with an average of twenty-one people per squarekilometre compared to New Yorks ten, or London and Bangkoks average of five. Building-heightrestrictions in Paris have prevented people from piling up and encouraged them tospill out onto the streets.

Whether you prefer the company of others or the solitude of anonymity, les rues ofParis invite us to engage. A vibrant caf culture encourages conversation and debatewhile winding cobblestone pathways nestled between broad boulevards give the freedomto wander and lose your way, knowing youll never be truly lost. This overlappingof lives and experiences heightens the senses and makes everything feel more intimateand more immediate.

Four weeks after the coin landed, Christian and I had quit our jobs, put our houseon the market, broken the news to our stunned yet supportive relatives, and wereon a plane to Paris. We stayed temporarily in a boutique hotel where mornings beganin a breakfast room overlooking an inner courtyard. There were hardwood floors, tealvelvet chairs, ivory damask table linens, hammered metal flatware, along with freshlysqueezed orange juice, a basket brimming with hot-from-the-bakers-oven croissants,and caf au lait in wide, vintage bowls. My breakfasts in Canada had been eaten overthe sink and washed down with coffee to go. In Paris, I could have lingered overpetit djeuner all day.

But I had work to do. Christian had secured a fashionable job on the European teamof Polo Ralph Lauren, which generously included these temporary accommodations untilwe could find a place of our own. While he worked in their flagship store at placede la Madeleine, I scoured newspapers and bulletin boards in churches and communitycentres looking for a job and an apartment. Days and weeks passed. Apartments withinour budget were as scarce as jobs that included working papers. Not being able toroll my rs didnt help either, but I remained optimistic, confident that a combinationof luck, effort, and the magic of Paris would help me along.

The best way to get to know a city is to walk it, and I didnt need much convincingto hit the streets. By day I walked and by night I charted and planned my route tomaximize efficiency. One day, I decided to walk across Paris. Literally. At a goodpace, I figured I could cover the fourteen-kilometre journey from Porte Maillot toBois de Vincennes in about three hours. I set out from the hotel in my running shoes,hauling an oversized knapsack packed with a picnic lunch, water, gum, sunscreen,sweater, Plan de Paris, and a leather-bound journal I had received as a going-awaypresent. Looking back, I was more appropriately dressed for trekking in the mountainsthan a promenade through the birthplace of the little black dress.

It started to drizzle as I made my way around the Arc de Triomphe and started downthe Champs-lyses. I had everything in my backpack except an umbrella, and by thetime I reached place de la Concorde, the drizzle had turned to pelting rain. Hurriedby an irresistible impulse, I sought refuge in Angelina, a prestigious tearoom steeped or stuck in belle poque grandeur. The hostess scowled and I smiled through thewater dripping off my bangs. It was only when I sat down and saw my reflection inthe opulent wall mirror that I noticed the real source of her disdain. My soaked,clingy, see-through T-shirt exposed the veteran sports bra I wore on days like this days that didnt matter, days where nobody was supposed to see it. I pulled thesweater from my knapsack and draped it around my shoulders to conceal my embarrassmentand then did what everybody else did