In Paris a woman’s purse is very important. It declares her style and status openly and immediately to all who pass, and it must, therefore, match her outfit at all times. Coming from the California car culture, I don’t naturally fret over my handbag and what people will think of me. What obsesses me, in fact, are the contents of my bag. When I first came to Paris and had to carry a bag with me at all times, I was unorganized and I lost hours of my precious time scrounging through disgusting crumbs at the bottom of the bag looking for my house keys. For reasons related to shadow and light that I’ll never be able to explain, orange items were the only things that I could see in the dreaded depths of the bag. Five zillion unidentifiable crumbs later, it was time to convert the contents of my bags to orange.