It all started with Louis Garrel.

There he was, right up there on the silver screen, on one of the many silver screens in one of the many cinemas in Paris. More precisely, it was a silver screen in one of the many screening rooms in the cinema in Les Halles. More precisely, it was a silver screen in one of the many screening rooms in UGC Ciné Cité Les Halles, not one of the silver screens downstairs in Les Halles, in one of the screening rooms in the UGC Orient Express. No, he was up there, Louis was, right up there on one of the larger, more expansive silver screens in the larger, more expansive Main Venue. In Salle 4. On a Wednesday afternoon. To be precise.

Monsieur Garrel in THAT shirt

Louis Garrel. In all of his French actor-inspired glory…

…wearing a lumberjack coat.

A lumberjack coat! On Louis! Enfolding Louis! Engulfing Louis! Enwrapping Louis! Enveloping Louis Garrel!

It was all very upsetting.

There had to be an explanation – it was an art film, after all. A film d’auteur. A typically French film d’auteur with a typically snappy French title: Non ma fille, tu n’iras pas danser (No Daughter, You Won’t Go Dancing). A certain journalist doesn’t recall much dancing taking place, unless one counted that bizarre-o period sequence in the middle, that part that took place out on the moors somewhere, if you could call that dancing, which a certain journalist certainly doesn’t because as far as dancing went it was un-seductive and un-suggestive and un-sexy and therefore un-fun…and nowhere, nowhere in the title was there any mention of lumberjacks. Or lumberjack coats. And anyway, everyone, everyone knows that lumberjacks come from Québec, not France, and that Louis Garrel is French, not Québécois, and that this was a French film d’auteur, not a Québécois one. A French film d’auteur that took place in France, not Québec. To be precise.

It was all so very upsetting.

In all fairness, in the interest of remaining calm, in the interest of keeping one’s wits, in the interest of not going off the Deep End, in the interest of maintaining journalistic accuracy, it must be stated, fairly, calmly, pragmatically, accurately that Louis Garrel would look hot in just about anything – even a lumberjack coat. To be precise. But still…

Here’s the thing: there exists a certain number of us, a certain journalist included, who visit and come to and settle down in and plant roots in Paris, Paris France. We say we come for the language and the culture and the cuisine and the champagne, and it’s true, it really is. But some of us, a certain journalist included, some of us aren’t afraid to admit and concede and confess and declare that the other thing, the Other Thing we come for is the men. The French men. Frenchmen like Louis Garrel. Frenchmen with messy hair and pouty lips and finely-formed cheekbones and well-tailored coats. Well-tailored three-quarter-length coats. Like the ones that Louis Garrel normally wears in his movies.

Mr Canada 2009

And here’s the other thing: there exists a certain number of us, a certain journalist included, who live here in Paris but who hail from Canada. That’s C-A-N-A-D-A – you know the one. Right? Or at least you’ve heard of it once or twice. Second largest land mass in the world, next to Russia? Polite, modest, unnoticed, overshadowed cousin to the U.S. of A.? You know, home of hockey and maple syrup and back bacon and whale blubber and beavers and beaver tail pastries and yes, the odd igloo or two and yes, the odd lumberjack or two and yes, the odd guy or two, or three or four hundred, or three or four thousand, or three or four hundred thousand that wear lumberjack coats even though they rarely, if ever, go trekking through the bush? You see, you know the Canada of which I write! And you’ve probably never even been there!!

And yes, this is all accurate, it must be stated, for the sake of journalistic accuracy, for the sake of accuracy for accuracy’s sake, to be precise. But allow a certain journalist to elaborate, permit her to dispel a certain few myths: there exists a certain number of us, a certain journalist included, who don’t like hockey, who rarely consume maple syrup or back bacon for that matter, who have never, ever been near or seen a whale or its blubber for that matter…and well, we’ll just leave the beaver thing alone. We came to Paris, a certain number of us, a certain journalist included, for the language and culture and cuisine and champagne and Frenchmen and Inherent Lack of Lumberjack Coats. We HATE lumberjack coats! Loathe them!! We curse the mass production of them!!! We despise everything they stand for!!!! So when a certain number of us, or at least a certain journalist, is sitting around a certain cinema on a certain Wednesday afternoon, minding her own business, only to discover that a certain French actor, one of her favorite French actors, has stooped so low as to sport the certain offendingly offensive, shapeless, formless, black-and-red checkered eyesore, well…

…it’s all so very certainly upsetting.

Saturday night, 10:23 p.m., to be precise. Precisely three days and a few hours proceeding the Lumberjack Coat Sighting. Central Paris. The Marais, to be precise. The Marais as in The Swamp. Not The Woods, not The Bush, not The Forest or any other derivative in which a lumberjack may be inclined to hang out. The Swamp. As in Le Marais. Only it’s not a swamp. But still…

It’s a big night for the artsy set. As a kick-off to the fall expo season, the galleries have thrown open their doors to exhibit the first oeuvres of the season. It’s technically art, and technically technical, but not technically beautiful, technically, but it doesn’t matter because beauty, on this balmy Parisian eve, is everywhere all the same. It’s in the pools of soft lamplight spilling onto the tiny sidewalks, it’s in the rivers of pale moonlight that bathe the narrow streets. It’s in the wafts of expensive perfume that cling to the mild night air, and it’s in the swishy sway of a sugar baby’s hips as she leads Sugar Daddy to his next investment. It’s a beautiful soirée filled with beautiful people…and language and culture and champagne. And everyone, everyone is fashionable and stylish and gorgeous and glamorous and so damn chic.

And then there they were. Right there, arm in arm. Customarily honoring Marais custom. Strolling, stopping, sauntering, sidling up, chuckling at, presumably, some inside joke. Right there on the rue Saint-Claude, just around the corner from the rue des Arquebusiers. Two French boys, arm in arm. Messy hair and pouty lips and finely-formed cheekbones and the whole bit. Wearing matching LUMBERJACK coats.

It was all so extremely upsetting that a certain journalist needed to get a drink.

Sunday morning, 12:19 a.m. On the sidewalk terrasse of a bar on rue au Maire, on the edge of Le Marais, not far from Arts et Métiers, right beside the Tango nightclub. A line has formed outside the club; the crowd is patient, amiable, lighthearted, fun. And then there they were: two more French boys, different ones, ones with shorter, less messy hair, but with pouty lips and finely-formed cheekbones nonetheless. Wearing, well…take a guess. And a third French boy, his pouty lips and finely-formed cheekbones further accented by a short, neat crew cut, sporting a shirt-like version of the original coat. A certain journalist chugged her 1664 and signaled to her friends that it was time to split. She wasn’t in a hurry to get home, kind of dreaded daybreak, didn’t really want to imagine breakfast, but still. What if, after all, there was some subversive conspiracy that was attempting to wipe out Parisian culture? What if Paris was being invaded by some kind of fellow lumberjack travellers? First through fashion…and then what? Were they going to replace morning croissants with beaver tail pastries? Her beloved steak-frites with bacon and blubber? Soccer and rugby with hockey and…and…

The thought was, well, quite upsetting.

Wednesday afternoon again. Precisely a week after Lumberjack Coat Sighting Number One, nearly almost to the hour, to be precise. A certain journalist is placidly perusing the Pariscope to see what’s playing, but she’s decided to avoid Louis Garrel films for the next little while. A certain Frenchman is in the next room, organizing his closet. A crash, a thud, a few cheery cuss words en français, a gleeful little outburst of triumph.

“What do you think, chérie ?” said certain Frenchman inquired as he appeared in the doorway. And then there it was, dangling from his outstretched arm in all of its black-and-red checkered glory: a Canadian-issue lumberjack coat, circa…well, does it matter?

“I considered disposing of it, but I will not,” he explained earnestly. “That would not be très correcte. I cannot throw away a souvenir I purchased while visiting your country! En plus, I hear they’re coming back into style.”