The reasons to visit Paris are endless… amazing architecture, world-class art, fascinating history, divine food. And then there’s fashion.

Coco Chanel, Christian Dior, Louis Vuitton, Lanvin, Hermes, Yves Saint Laurent and Christian Louboutin, historically some of the world’s top designers and fashion houses have been French.  So I fully expected, on our three-day visit, to be launched into a non-stop episode of ‘Sex and the City’ when Carrie goes to Paris, minus the face-first nose dive at the House of Dior.

Friends had suggested that I wear dresses during the day and Big Papa bring a suit coat for dining out. I fretted over finding a fashionable backpack (landed a great black leather Hobo bag at a consignment store) so I didn’t look like an REI advertisement on the road. My hair which, left to its own devices is a halo of curls, was blown straight and swanky before departure.

Shoes. I confess to having a weakness for shoes. My closet is filled with more pairs of boots, sandals, espadrilles and ballet flats than any one girl really needs. Though my days trying to wobble around the steep hills of Seattle in heels have passed, I’m a sucker for a cute pair of shoes.

That said, I’d promised Big Papa I wouldn’t repeat the error of my ways from one or two trips where a few miles of walking in shoes inappropriate to the occasion, left my feet blistered and sore.  I selected a comfy but stylish pair of Privo patent leather sandals.

Please note I am not a fashion maven. I want to look nice and presentable, but no one is going to call me cutting edge.  Truth be told, I expected to feel more Mademoiselle Frumpy than Miss Couture Hottie. Still, knowing we were strangers in a strange land, I hoped not to stick out like an American sore thumb.

Off we went. Twelve hours of flying and nine time zones later, voila, there we were.

As our three-day stay passed, I revised my view of ‘haute’ in the city of lights. I did spot a few gams sporting red-soled Louboutins and spied plenty of gals teetering over cobblestones and on bicycles with sky-high heels, but overall Parisian fashion appeared decidedly down-to-earth.  Wisps of hair floating this way and that, a scarf thrown ‘round their necks in that insouciant way only French girls can manage. I admit to feeling quite surprised to even discover a sizable number of Birkenstock–clad women sitting in sidewalk cafes.

While I’d be willing to wager that on closer inspection looking oh-so-undone and casual was more contrived than accidental, I have to say the majority of women looked as though they were heading for espresso and the neighborhood flea market rather than cocktails and the opera. Not a single soul to be found donning Carrie Bradshaw-sized ball gowns.

Big Papa never did put on his suit coat. Not that we didn’t see natty looking men zipping around on their scooters, suited up with a ciggie hanging from their mouths. For the most part we felt a part of it all in our relatively casual attire.

On the final day of our trip, we stopped for one last night in Paris on our way back from Yerevan. We headed out for a self-guided walking tour of the streets around St. Germain. Stopping to read the menu at Café Procope, touted as the oldest café in the world, I looked down to see two pairs of comfortable yet fashionable patent leather sandals standing side by side. I smiled at the women standing next to me. “Nice shoes,” I said with a wink. She looked down and laughed. “We should be in a picture together,” I suggested. “Where are you traveling from?” she asked. “Seattle,” I told her.  “No kidding, we’re from Vancouver and our travel companions are from Portland.”

Isn’t that the way it goes. An ocean away from home, here stood two gals practically from the same zip code, just trying to blend in, ala Parisienne.