Foreign Parts

À DÉTESTER: Fashion Week Envy

Et voilà, just like that, Paris fashion week is over.  Thank god.

The catwalks are dark, the photographers have left the pits, the models have flown back to New York.  I can now relax, and let go of that urge to buy ridiculously expensive clothing and accessories.

I detest fashion week because I love it — and because, every season, I try to protect my pocketbook from it, and yet every season I fail.  Those embossed invitations arrive in the mail and my heart sinks: I have nothing to wear.  Sure, I can rely on the black items of quality in the back of my closet, just as I did the season before and the season before that.  I tell myself this, and yet on the eve of the first Paris show I find myself at le Bon Marché, darting from rack to rack in a panic, bent on finding something new, luxurious, and affordable.  I have never left without purchasing something.

It's a sickness, really.  A sickness induced by The Sartorialist, by Garance Doré, by Style.com, and now even by a 13-year-old girl who has a better wardrobe than I (and a fabulous blog, Style Rookie).  Of course I can't put all of the blame on these arbiters of style (I should blame myself for looking obsessively at their Web sites), but I wish they would stop profiling people in the industry who can afford to keep entire apartments in Paris, just for their wardrobes.  It makes the rest of us who eek out meager livings by writing about skirts and snapping images of handbags feel inadequate, poor, ripped off.  Our paychecks keep us firmly in off-the-rack territory, and it just isn't fair.  We have to go to the shows too, and we have to do it in H&M rather than D&G.  

À AIMER: Getting Sick, Part Four

Today the Washington Post reported that the Senate Finance Committee's health care reform bill, if passed, "would require people to buy insurance or face penalties ranging up to $1,900, to be assessed on their income tax returns."

I laughed when I read that, and not in a gleeful way.  Coming from France, or any country in the European Union, the very idea of forcing citizens to purchase their own basic health care or pay a fine of $1,900 is absurd.  I would like to remind you that, in Paris, my private, comprehensive health insurance, which I must pay for because I am not a French citizen, costs €696 per year.  That's $1,016.46 per year at the current exchange rate.  And my coverage is terrific: 70% of regular doctor's visits, 100% of major medical.  But you can read all about that in Getting Sick Part One, and all about how much French citizens pay in taxes to support the world's top-rated health care system in Part Three.

Today, for Part Four, I'd like to focus on what the French get in exchange for their income taxes.  We already know what Americans get: public education through Grade 12, Medicare after age 65, and Medicaid for those below the poverty line (in 2009, a single citizen must make less than $10,830 a year to qualify).

By contrast, this is a short list of what French citizens get, and it bears mentioning that they get it whether they are rich or poor, employed or unemployed, young or old:

HEALTH CARE COVERAGE

- 70% of doctor's visits (generalists and specialists, including psychiatric care). 

- 100% of doctor's visits for children age two and younger. 

- 100% of prenatal care. 

- 65% of vaccinations (70% if the vaccination is given during regular doctor's appointments and 100% if the patient is deemed "at risk" due to age or health problems).

- 70% of dental visits (this includes cavity treatments, tooth pulling, crowns, and bridges).

- 100% of orthodontic treatment for kids younger than 16.

- 65% of eyeglass costs, limited to one pair per year.

- 100% of major medical (health problems that last more than six months — HIV, Alzheimer's disease, Parkinson's disease, diabetes, hemophilia, cirrhosis of the liver, etc. — are covered completely).

- 80% of hospital charges for elective surgeries (70% of anesthesia treatments).

- 100% of hospital charges for those who must be hospitalized longer than 30 days.

- 100% of hospital charges for women with birth complications, before and after delivery.

- 80% of home hospitalization; 100% for those with long-term illnesses.

- 100% of cures thermales, or spa hydrotherapy, for those with such debilitating long-term illnesses as neuropathy and inflammatory polyarthritis (this includes spa lodging up to €150.01 per night and a round-trip, second-class ticket on a SNCF train, as most French spas are on the coasts).

As I stated earlier, that is the short list of what is covered by the French national health care system.  Now let's look at a few of the other benefits the French receive in exchange for their "high" taxes:

AFFORDABLE CHILD CARE

- 16 weeks of pregnancy leave for women who do not have any complications (those who have complications, of course, get more time off). 

- "Welfare" checks for low-income parents (for example, a couple earning less than €39,376 a year who already have two children will receive €889.72 for the birth of their third child).

- Affordable, government-run day care.  (The amount parents pay for day care depends on their household income; those who make less pay less.  A couple earning €3,000 per month with one child will pay €288 per month for group day care. Household nannies are also available under the government-run system for roughly the same amount.)

AFFORDABLE EDUCATION

- Public education is basically free from école maternelle (preschool, which starts at age three) through lycée (high school).  

- Affordable public universities.  Fees for the 2009-2010 school year at all public universities are as follows: €171 for those earning bachelor's degrees, €231 for students in master's programs, €350 for those earning doctoral degrees.

EARLY RETIREMENT

- Retirement age varies in France but, for those who work physical jobs, it can start as early as age 55.

Are you reeling yet?  

I am — especially when I think of that single American who lives in California and earns $25,000 a year from two part-time jobs with no health insurance, who doesn't qualify for Medicare or Medicaid, and who pays $5,833 of his salary in taxes and might soon pay an additional $1,900 because he can't afford his own health insurance.  With $17,267 left, and studio apartments in Los Angeles ranging from $635 to $2235 a month (I just checked Craig's List), how is he to pay his rent?  How is he to eat?  And why don't Americans care enough to fix this?

Sources: l'Assurance Maladie, www.ameli.fr; Allocations Familiales, www.caf.fr.

On the Road: Why Hawaii is like France

Surfer, Biarritz, France.

Travel enthusiasts are often asked which place on Earth they like best.  For years, my answer was always the same: "Hawaii and France."  No one understood my response — not even me. How could I hold in such high esteem two destinations that are so completely different?  

One place is tropical, while the other place has a climate that ranges from Mediterranean to Humid Oceanic.  One is a mid-sized, crowded nation and gateway to a continent, while the other is a sparsely-populated archipelago and the fiftieth state of a country 2,400 miles away. The citizens of the two places look nothing like one another, and they speak different languages.  Their histories are different, their food is different, their cultures are different — even their immigrants are different.  Both places, though, attract surfers (see photos).  But that is not why they are alike, or why I like them so much.  

No, the reason the two destinations are similar, and so enchanting, hit me during my recent trip to Hawaii.  I hadn't been to the islands in three years, but when I arrived at Honolulu International Airport, I was struck by the sheer number of holidaymakers streaming towards baggage claim. Tourism is down across the globe, but there I was, surrounded by American honeymooners, Japanese families, Brazilian surfers, and German students — just as I had been surrounded by Australian honeymooners, Saudi families, Canadian backpackers, and Italian students when I departed from Charles de Gaulle.  

Hawaii and France are two places that are besieged by tourists, even in off season, and even during times of economic bust.  So far this year, the Hawaiian islands have received nearly four million vacationers — about four times their total population.  In France, the local-tourist ratio is even more pronounced. Paris alone has had 15.9 million visitors this year; this for a city of just two million people.

But mass tourism is not the thing I like about these two places; it's the local reaction to mass tourism that I admire.  Not the reaction of the politicians and developers and tour operators, who court as many visitors as they can, no matter the cost to the local ecology or quality of life.  I'm talking about the way ordinary Hawaiian and French citizens react to the tourist hordes: they ignore them, and I like that.  

In Hawaii and in France, the locals are proud; their friendship is not for sale.  Visitors who want to be catered to, who want "sincere" attention in exchange for money spent, are generally disappointed by both destinations.  And tourists who make no effort, who won't learn ten words of French or who refuse to use chopsticks "in America" (yes, I've heard it), often leave with nothing good to say about the incredible places they have just had the fortune to visit.

Of course, French citizens and Hawaiian kama'aina (long-time residents, as there are few true Hawaiians left) sometimes say disparaging things about their guests (Parisians can make the word touriste sound like a put-down, just by the way they say it).  I don't condone tourist-bashing (hey, I'm a tourist too), but I do understand the frustrations of those who have to deal directly with the ugliest of the ugly vacationers.  I understand their annoyance every time I see an American college student at Charles de Gaulle Airport wearing pajamas, and I certainly understood the anger of a French waiter the night a German tourist accused him of marking up the price of a bottle of wine, a price that was clearly listed on the menu and on the chalkboard.  In Hawaii, I have seen such disrespect for local culture and wildlife that it has turned my stomach.  There are too many instances to recount, but one of the worst was an English snorkeler who yanked on the flipper of an endangered green sea turtle, just a few feet from a large sign that said it was prohibited to approach, touch, or harass the reptiles.

Such bad tourist behavior deserves disdain and it is, unfortunately, so pervasive in Hawaii and in France that it means good travelers have to work that much harder to gain the respect of the locals.  But this is what I like about French and Hawaiian citizens: they are no pushovers.  When they are nice to you, they mean it.  And that means you have merited their respect.

Surfer, North Shore, Oahu, Hawaii.

On the Road: Hawaii head

Where did my mind go?  

Six days in Hawaii and I have lost the ability to think beyond the immediate future.  I blame it on what I call "Hawaii head," a wonderful state of bliss in which one can focus only on what one is going to do in the next sixty minutes.  The choices are delightfully simple: Surf or snorkel?  Kayak or swim?  Sushi or udon?  Take a nap or drink some iced coffee?  Rinse the saltwater off your hair or dive back in?

Les vacances!  There is no better way to re-boot.  

Aloha from the North Shore of Oahu.  

À AIMER: la rentrée

Il fait chaud in Paris right now, but it's no longer summer.  

L'été ended (unofficially) last week with la rentrée, the start of the fall term in France and the end of the summer vacances.  Les Parisiens came back to their city, as they always do, in two great waves: the first group flooded in the weekend of l'Assomption (August 15, the day that Mary, Jesus's mother, is said to have ascended into heaven.  In France, Assumption Day is a public holiday — curious for a country that prides itself on its secularism).  The second group returned last week, just in time to stock le frigo and to buy school supplies for la rentrée scolaire, back-to-school for French kids, which began last Thursday.  

For those of us who like to stay in town in August, la rentrée can come as quite as shock.  During the last weekend of the month, you can still walk down the middle of Rue de Rivoli at midnight, marveling that le Marais looks like an abandoned movie set, but by the first week of September you will be flattened by platoons of Renaults, Citroëns, and unlicensed scooters if you try to put even a toe off the sidewalk. 

The quiet days of August are gone, but there is plenty to love about la rentrée: the return of your favorite butcher, the sudden delivery of long-awaited mail, two bank tellers instead of just one.  There is a palpable buzz in the air as friends catch up at the corner brasserie, neighbors exchange pleasantries, and newscasters egg everyone on by breathlessly reporting la rentrée as a major event. 

On Wednesday morning before the first day of class, the department store BHV is pure chaos.  I'm riding the escalator up past aisles of back-to-school clothes, backpacks, lined notebooks, ballpoint pens, and erasers.  The woman in front of me gestures to the school supplies and exclaims to her young daughter, "Just look at all of these pretty things!"  Her daughter looks unimpressed — her mind is probably on the alarm clock that will wake her tomorrow before dawn — but her maman's enthusiasm works on me.  I ride back downstairs and buy myself a new Moleskine notebook, just in time for my favorite aspect of la rentrée — my vacances.

With everybody else back to school or back to the office, airfares have come down.  And that's my cue to leave.  So welcome back, Parisians, and au revoir.  

Aloha, Hawaii!  

À DÉTESTER: les macarons

Cloying.  

That's the word that comes to my mind when I see a tray of macarons.  Cloying.  Not delicious or elegant or French. Why do so many Americans and Japanese think "le macaron" is the Parisian dessert?  I'm not sure about the Japanese, but I know where Americans — especially American women — get that idea: from "Sex and the City."  From the pages of American Vogue and Gourmet and just about every other magazine I thumb through whenever I'm back in the U.S.  If the editors have decided to do a piece on Paris, or on French desserts, we are bound to read about the virtues of les macarons.

We are also bound to read about Ladurée.  Now I confess, about once a year, when my sister or mother is in town or when it's particularly cold and drizzly, I get a craving to go to the original Ladurée, that jewel box of a pâtisserie on the corner of Rue Royale and Rue Saint-Honoré.  Once we get through the doorway, which is inevitably blocked by a mob of tourists and aging Parisians, we will be served either by a charming waiter in a heavily used suit or by a grumpy middle-aged waitress who, via her perma-grimace and rough movements (she drops, rather than sets, everything on the table) lets us know that she would rather be home with her family than serving us.

As we wait for our turn to order, we will check out the room. If we're sitting downstairs, there is a lot to look at: gilded moldings, marble tables, cherubs cavorting on painted ceilings.  Upstairs, it's more informal and clubby: your grandparent's den, maybe.  If your grandparents happen to live in a rambling old apartment in Manhattan or London.  It doesn't look particularly Parisian here, and it doesn't feel very Parisian, either.  Save for the pair of women in mink, who are gossiping wildly in French, oblivious to everyone else, the customers sitting upstairs at Ladurée were not born on French soil.  Across from us is a preppy Japanese family looking slightly confused — or is it displeased? — by the food and the service.  To our right is a jolly American couple who seems to have ordered one of everything.  To our left is a haughty young English woman with her frayed-looking but clearly wealthy fiancé.  They are shopping for engagement rings.  As she thumbs through a Cartier catalog, she expresses her displeasure at being seated next to a common American (that common American, by the way, is me.  This really did happen.)

Mais bon.  It is our time to order.  If we get one of the waitresses and if we order in French, they will begrudgingly answer us in the language of Molière — begrudgingly.  If we get the waiter, he will treat us with respect and good humor, even if we can't speak French and even if we are those terribly rude types who bark orders, demanding, "I want!" and "Give me!"  If we are like that, he will nod and say "thank you" and he will bring us what we desire.  He'll be polite about it, on the surface.  But listen to what he says under his breath.  If we hear him utter the word "cons," pronounced "cone," we will know: he has just called us assholes.  But he will do it with such style.

So what does someone who doesn't like macarons order at Ladurée?  Chocolat chaud — a thick brew of bittersweet hot chocolate that is like drinking liquid cake.  Or maybe a lemon tart.  No macarons, please.  Not the raspberry or cassis or white chocolate or orange.  They all hurt my teeth.  I detest them all, except — except for one, and they don't make it at Ladurée.  

Truffe.  I would like the truffle macaron, s'il vous plaît.  I had this "cookie" just once, at an elegant lunch event at the Hôtel Meurice.  The sucré-salé (sugary-salty) appetizer was flecked with shavings of the world's most delicious and expensive mushroom, and it was absolutely divine, especially when accompanied by a glass of dry champagne.

À AIMER: Getting Sick, Part Three

Last weekend, inspired by some very good points and questions from readers, I went down the tax rabbit hole and into the very confusing world of French impôts, where everything is topsy-turvy — about as upside down, or right-side up, as things are in the American tax world.  In some aspects, the two systems are quite similar; in other aspects, they are completely different.  But it all boils down to this: one system is more expensive for taxpayers yet offers generous health, education, retirement, and welfare benefits.  The other system is less expensive but offers its taxpayers little sécurité.

The question today, though, is: how much more expensive?

I attempted to find the answer in Part Two of Getting Sick, but I lacked some very important information: one, that both American and French income taxes are calculated on graduated scales so that portions of income fall into different tax brackets.  Two, that the French are also subject to a host of social taxes that are taken directly from their gross (brut) earnings; they pay their income taxes on their net earnings. Three, that Americans also pay social taxes — the U.S. government takes a portion of gross earnings for Social Security and Medicare.

Both systems allow for myriad deductions — everything from credit back for taxes paid to credits for purchasing clean-energy cars and employing domestic workers.  Taxpayers in both countries try to claim as many deductions as they can (and even some that they can't) in order to reduce their taxation.

So, without further ado, let's look at what the French pay, and what Americans pay.  (Okay, a few more "ados" — my calculations are based on the most recent tax tables from both countries, plus the most recent tax tables for California.  I have applied the graduated scales, and also Social Security and Medicare for Americans and all of "les charges sociales" for the French.  No extra deductions, such as dependents or union fees, were applied.  For those who would like to double-check my numbers, my sources are listed at the bottom of this post.)

And now, finally, voilà:

A single American earning $25,000 a year and living in California pays:

$3,332.50 in Federal taxes

+ $588 in State taxes

+ $1912.50 to Social Security and Medicare

for a total of $5,833 or just over 23% of his income in taxes.

A single French citizen earning €25,000 pays:

€5,250 in "charges sociales" (social charges)

+ €1,174 in income taxes

for a total of €6,424 or nearly 26% of his income in taxes.  

(Note: French social charges are about 21% of the gross income.  A 10% credit is then deducted from the net earnings to arrive at the amount owed in income taxes.)

Moving on, 

A single American earning $90,000 a year and living in California pays:

$18,920 in Federal taxes

+ $6,066 in State taxes

+ $6,885 to Social Security and Medicare

for a total of $31,871 or just over 35% of her income in taxes.

A single Française earning €90,000 pays:

€18,900 in "charges sociales" (social charges)

+ €13,168 in income taxes

for a total of €32,068 or nearly 36% of her income in taxes.

And finally,

An American couple earning $50,000 each, filing jointly, and living in California will pay:

$17,375 in Federal taxes

+ $4,689 in State taxes

+ $7,650 to Social Security and Medicare

for a total of $29,714 or nearly 30% of their combined annual incomes in taxes.

A French couple earning €50,000 each and filing together will pay:

€21,000 in "charges sociales" (€10,500 each in social charges)

+ €10,406 in income taxes

for a total of €31,406 or over 31% of their combined annual income in taxes.

So,the French system is only slightly more expensive for its taxpayers, and they get more out of it.  What exactly do they get out of it, compared to what Americans get?  Stay tuned for Part Four . . . 

SOURCES

The Internal Revenue Service

The French Government Fiscal Administration site (in French, but with a detailed tax calculator).

State of California Franchise Tax Board (also with a tax calculator).

Le Money Mag (in French)

Dixon Wilson Chartered Accounting

À DÉTESTER: chestnut spread

Do all junkies come to detest the thing to which they're addicted?  I wonder, because I have begun to hate la confiture de châtaigne — chestnut spread — even as I spoon it greedily into my mouth.  Yes, spoon it.  I forgo the bread that a French person would use as a vehicle for this delicious, healthy, and highly caloric treat and instead just eat it by la cuillière.

It is not a pretty sight, but the sugar and protein rush does give me the necessary energy to meet deadlines (I have not quit my day job) while I am simultaneously researching how much French citizens really pay for their national health care system (part three of the Getting Sick series will be posted by Monday, I promise).  On the downside, it promotes rapid weight gain. Cavities, too.

Another problem with confiture de châtaigne is its availability. You can find it everywhere in France, at all of the grocery stores and most crêpe stands.  The organic supermarket chain Naturalia carries my favorite brand, Jean-Paul Vincensini et fis, which is made in Corsica and is quickly replacing my addiction to organic, sugar-free peanut butter.

Which brings me to an unsolved mystery: why do the French hate peanut butter when they love confiture de châtaigne and its identical twin, confiture de marrons?  I have polled all of my French friends and acquaintances and received the same responses, all of which I deem unacceptable (except for the response from the friend who said that he actually likes peanut butter): 

"Confiture de châtaigne and peanut butter are not the same thing at all!"  (They may not be the same, but both are made from nuts, both are eaten with toast for breakfast or as a snack, and both are available with or without sugar.)  

"Peanut butter is disgusting!"  (Highly subjective.)  

"Peanut butter looks like caca!"  (True, but so does confiture de châtaigne.)  

"Peanut butter is too fattening!"  (And so is confiture de châtaigne).  

So, if any of you readers — French, Americain, or "Other" — have any clues that might help us solve this most important mystery, please respond.  While I wait, I'll just dip into that jar for one more spoonful of . . . 

À AIMER: Getting Sick, Part Two

Welcome to Part Two of À AIMER: Getting Sick, or The Joys of Civilized Medicine (thank you reader Kent for suggesting that we replace the word "Socialized" with "Civilized").  

Americans who oppose national health care systems often cite high taxes as their primary reason for preferring capitalized medicine.  Government health care, they say, would cost way too much money.  Taxes would be unbelievably high — as high as they are in France.  Do you want to pay 60 percent of your income to Big Brother just for a free trip to the doctor?  

Lest you think that I've morphed into Rush Limbaugh, let me cut the unsubstantiated banter and get to the facts: how much do French citizens pay for their national health care system?  

A LOOK AT FRENCH INCOME TAXES

The French, just like Americans, pay annual income taxes (and they are also entitled to deductions).  A portion of their yearly impôts is allocated to la sécurité sociale, which covers health care, welfare, worker's compensation, unemployment, and retirement.

This is the current French income tax structure:

0 to €5,852 - 0%

€5,853 to 11,673 - 5.5%

€11,674 to 25,926 - 14%

€25,927 to 69,505 - 30%

More than €69,505 - 40%

So a person who earns €25,000 per year pays 14 percent of that income to Marianne, France's version of Uncle Sam.  For their contribution, they receive health insurance and are entitled to worker's compensation, unemployment, and retirement benefits.  A French citizen making €90,000 pays 40 percent of her income to receive the same.  It is important to note that these income tax brackets are per person, not married-filing-jointly, which is an option in the United States. So a French couple making €50,000 each would each pay 30 percent of their incomes in taxes.  The tax on their €100,000 combined household income would be €30,000.

Now let's look at the American federal income tax structure for 2009:

Single Filers Married Filing Jointly

0 to $8,350 - 10% 0 to $16,700 - 10%

$8,350 to 33,950 - 15% $16,700 to 67,900 - 15%

$33,950 to 82,250 - 25% $67,900 to 137,050 - 25%

$82,250 to 171,550 - 28% $137,050 to 208,850 - 28%

$171,550 - 373,950 - 33% $208,850 to 372,950 - 33%

More than €372,950 - 35% More than $372,950 - 35%

So, in the United States, a single American who earns $25,000 per year pays 15 percent of his income to Uncle Sam (the Marianne taxpayer pays 14 percent).  And an American couple earning $100,000 ($50,000 each) pays 25 percent of their income in taxes for a grand total of $25,000 (the French couple pays €30,000).  

The American couple pays less, but wait — in which state do they reside?  While French citizens pay only national income taxes, American citizens must pay federal and state taxes (unless they live in a no-tax state like Wyoming, as Dick Cheney does).  Let's say our American couple lives in the most populous of the 50 states: California.  Here is the current (2008) state income tax structure for married couples filing jointly:

California State income taxes / Married Filing Jointly

0 to $14,336 - 1%

$14,336 to 33,988 - $143.36 plus 2%

$33,988 to 53,642 - $536.40 plus 4%

$53,642 to 74,466 - $1,322.56 plus 6%

$74,466 to 94,110 - $2,572 plus 8%

More than $94,110 - $4,143.52 plus 9.3%

So our American couple earning $100,000 in the Golden State will pay + $9,300 + $4,143.52 + $25,000, or $38,443.52 to Uncle Sam — more than that French couple living in that "socialist" land that did not invent "Freedom Fries" (it was Belgium).

And what does our French couple get for their hard-earned cash?  

For starters, civilized medicine.  

À AIMER: European menswear (a.k.a. clothes that fit)

Photo: Louis Vuitton Men's Show, Spring Summer 2010.  © Louis Vuitton/Youssef Boudlal.

I used to work with a woman named Deborah who, each time a man passed by wearing a great scent, said, "Mmm-mmm.  I'm weak for a good-smelling man."

I, too, am weak for a good-smelling man.  I'm also weak for men who wear clothes that fit.  This is why I tend to walk around Europe with a half-smile on my lips that somehow fades every time I board the Eurostar for England or a plane back to the United States.

What is it with Anglophone men and baggy clothes?

The last time I was in London, I noticed that most of the men wore loose-fitting — if not ill-fitting — suits, jackets, and jeans.  Now that I am back in the U.S. for that tortuous dental treatment, I am astounded to see that nine men out of ten walk around in GIANT, and I don't mean large, clothes.  Even in fashionable New York, I lost count of the number of men whose shirts billowed out of their belted trousers, creating a weird sort of "balloon belt" effect.  

I know where they are getting these too-big shirts because every store from Neiman Marcus to The Gap carries them, and whether the label reads small or medium, the size is still XXL.

I do realize that many American men are now large to XXXL in body size, but just because you have what the French call "une bonne brioche" — a big belly — doesn't mean you have to wear T-shirts as large as pup tents.  And you're not hiding anything under that man's muumuu.  If you have une brioche, everybody knows it whether you're wearing huge clothing or not.  There are plenty of European men who are overweight and unfit, and many of them still manage to look great by choosing clothing that fits them well. 

And for those American and British guys who are en forme (in shape), why are you hiding it?  There are gorgeous French women (and men) out there who are just dying to meet "un bel Américain" or "un bel Anglais."  So treat yourself to a nicely-cut jacket and T-shirt, and perhaps a pair of lean trousers.  

With clothes that fit and a dab of divine cologne, you're sure to inspire weak knees.  And you can thank me later for all of the attention you've received.