It calls for dressing up. Just like actors in a play, the pressure is on those who live here to look the part. Perhaps my most revealing lesson in French dress standards occurs one Saturday morning soon after moving into Paris. Rushing to the bakery to get a baguette and croissants, I chuck on an old, shapeless jumper and my tracksuit pants, which I’d rediscovered at the bottom of a wardrobe when we were packing up our place at Levallois. Catching sight of me, Frédéric looks appalled.‘Tracksuit pants?’ He’s never seen me wearing them before.‘What’s wrong with that? I’m only going to the bakery.’There is a second’s pause. Frédéric’s eyes implore me. Finally, he manages to speak.‘But it’s not nice for the baker!’I stare at him, incredulous, thinking, ‘You can’t be serious.’ But he is. In fact, this is probably one of the most serious moments of his whole life. His girlfriend is about to step out in public wearing ‘pantalons de jogging’—an item of clothing he wouldn’t even wear jogging.
