I thought I’d met my match the last time I was in Paris. I’d been Ritz-
slapped out the revolving doors of the namesake hotel, bitch slapped into the
poor house at the Hotel de Crillon and pretty much shamed out of the human
race by the wily concierge staff at the Hotel Plaza Athénée. But clearly, all my
years of throw downs with the rank and file had not nearly prepared me for my
most challenging foe to date: the Paris fashionista during Couture week.
First, some perspective, which is not something The Travel Snob typically
dabbles, indulges or even entertains; in fact I’m pretty much allergic to it
(although it could very well be the dander). But to prevent another 10,000-word
column and the inevitable breakdown of my editor, it’s probably wise I provide
at least some background for the fantastical story you are about to read, lest
you think I’ve gone the way of that crazy uncle you keep locked away in the
attic, or, better yet, marooned in some senior living facility down in Margate.
Because without it (the perspective, not Uncle Morty), you’ll be lost and forced
to leave this happy little column and go on to all those shiny pages of ads for
items neither of us can afford.
Anyway, going to Paris was not an assignment for Simply the Best (please
… they barely cover my mini-bar charges) but because it included travel,
glamour, bankruptcy, bloodshed and the ejection of me from yet another
foreign country – all the necessary ingredients to a tasty and nutritious Travel
Snob experience – it provided perfect material for my next column, and given
the last two have covered New Orleans and (swallow) Cleveland, some
international mischief is just what this space needed (well, that and a really
potent Quaalude).
The genesis for this latest Parisian adventure began with my real job,
which we’ve established ad nauseum is the full-time gig that affords me the
luxury of being The Travel Snob. I’d somehow managed to convince my bosses
that another trip to Paris was warranted, and that I’d need an entourage to
balance the charisma that I so naturally radiate. And so I assembled the Paris
7, and off we went to the most glamorous four day stretch the feeble mind is
capable of imagining: Haute Couture Week, when fashion’s top designers
showcase their new collections at over-the-top shows attended by stars,
magazine editors, and women with a lot of lip collagen. It’s not just the shows
that are so exciting but the anticipation, the parties, the sightings and the
feeling you’re amongst the most celebrated, creative and over-paid people in
all the universe.
A caveat: the Travel Snob likes to think of himself as the center of the
universe, naturally, but this adventure required some real star power, and not
the pixie dust I’ve been known to project in the air to make my arrival that much
more mystical. And so I enlisted the most glamorous person I know who’d be
willing to spend a week with me and my friends, err, work-related colleagues
doing very important business: the divine Eva La Rue, star of CBS’ “CSI:
Miami,” and known to daytime audiences for her 12-year-role on the soap
opera “All My Children.” Sure, she might have filled out a restraining order in
advance, stocked up on mace and packed a bunch of Purelle, but she was
nevertheless excited (ok, willing) to travel with our entourage because, really,
what girl wouldn’t want to spend a week in Paris seeing all the haute couture
shows? Even if it meant spending time with us. The fact that her boyfriend at
the time was a big, beefy, ex-Patriot gave her some comfort, but he turned out
to be so cool and fun we stopped thinking of him as her security detail within a
few seconds of meeting.
And that’s where the trouble began, folks (the fashion shows, silly, not our
ever-expanding entourage, although they did wreck havoc on the hotel bill, for
sure). From the moment we’d stepped onto French soil the fighting began, and
let me just say had the French fought as hard for their country as they do over
fashion week the Nazis would have waved the white flag a long time before,
and it would have been Hermes.
One by one, the fashion labels began un-confirming our seats, with
excuses as lame as over-booking, not enough chairs, Lagerfeld has a cold,
Giorgio doesn’t speak English, Anna Wintour needs an extra seat for her
notebook …. Suddenly, the prospect of going to Paris without attending a
single show loomed heavily on my mind, as did the final bill from the Ritz Paris,
which has some nerve charging $60 for a hamburger and $40 for an in-room
movie. The encounters with the demon spawns controlling the seating charts
grew more and more heated, as did the Gestapo publicity squads attempting to
man handle the press. Nasty is just too generous a word to describe the
communications from these people. I’d say “with” but that would imply an actual
two-way conversation. Instead, we encountered a barrage of “no,” “go away,”
“are you crazy?” “stop calling,” “we’re going to have to call security” and my all-
time favorite “maybe next year.”
The Travel Snob is not one to take such rejection lightly, and fortunately
neither was my crew. And so we leapt into action with all the intensity of the first
20 minutes of “Saving Private Ryan,” without, you know, limbs and stuff (but
close). While producer Chris worked the phones and got us into Jean Paul
Gautier and Elie Sabb, stylist Angelique let her fingers do all the walking to Van
Cleef and Arpels off Place Vendome, which lent Eva a few million in stones for
the show. Our big coup came when we snuck six people into the Valentino
show, the hardest ticket to come by but surprisingly with the most lax security.
Maybe the guards were too busy looking after Valentino’s five precious pugs to
notice a six person cavalcade whizzing right through.
We had an itinerary that would turn a smile on heavily botox’d Lily Safra,
and what started out as a crappy week suddenly became a fairy tale. Attending
the Valentino show, his last before retirement, was one of the most exciting
nights of my life, as I sat across from Uma Thurman, Lucy Liu and “Gossip Girl”
vixen Blake Lively, who my good friend Leona insists talks with her mouth
closed, and annoyingly so. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house as we watched
Valentino walk down the runway for his final encore to the music of “No More I
Love You’s,” even if that song makes no sense whatsoever. Something tells me
Annie’s British invasion involved the medicine cabinet.
I’m no fashionista, but one couldn’t help get caught up in the glamour and
artistry of the runway, and seeing all those gorgeous, hand-crafted gowns
gracefully walk by. From Valentino, which struck a classy note, to Gautier,
which was outlandish and whimsical, all the couture on display was exceptional.
Making the week even more special was The Ritz Paris, despite the prices.
Within hours of arriving found ourselves standing among the A list, from
Lagerfeld to Galliano, and even Anna Wintour, who kept the Chanel show
waiting as she examined her dinner party at The Ritz, another event we were
un-invited to. It was at the point the hotel’s general manager Omer took pity on
us and took us under his wing, pointing our celebrities and sharing stories from
his days at The Four Seasons, one of which involved the Sultan of Brunei and
a 747 fly-over. I so have to meet this guy.
Omer even dialed up the hotel’s owner, Mohammad al Fayed, who wished Eva
good blessings and a happy stay at his hotel, and then asked her to be a
witness in his case against the British government
With a week like this, how could we not?
slapped out the revolving doors of the namesake hotel, bitch slapped into the
poor house at the Hotel de Crillon and pretty much shamed out of the human
race by the wily concierge staff at the Hotel Plaza Athénée. But clearly, all my
years of throw downs with the rank and file had not nearly prepared me for my
most challenging foe to date: the Paris fashionista during Couture week.
First, some perspective, which is not something The Travel Snob typically
dabbles, indulges or even entertains; in fact I’m pretty much allergic to it
(although it could very well be the dander). But to prevent another 10,000-word
column and the inevitable breakdown of my editor, it’s probably wise I provide
at least some background for the fantastical story you are about to read, lest
you think I’ve gone the way of that crazy uncle you keep locked away in the
attic, or, better yet, marooned in some senior living facility down in Margate.
Because without it (the perspective, not Uncle Morty), you’ll be lost and forced
to leave this happy little column and go on to all those shiny pages of ads for
items neither of us can afford.
Anyway, going to Paris was not an assignment for Simply the Best (please
… they barely cover my mini-bar charges) but because it included travel,
glamour, bankruptcy, bloodshed and the ejection of me from yet another
foreign country – all the necessary ingredients to a tasty and nutritious Travel
Snob experience – it provided perfect material for my next column, and given
the last two have covered New Orleans and (swallow) Cleveland, some
international mischief is just what this space needed (well, that and a really
potent Quaalude).
The genesis for this latest Parisian adventure began with my real job,
which we’ve established ad nauseum is the full-time gig that affords me the
luxury of being The Travel Snob. I’d somehow managed to convince my bosses
that another trip to Paris was warranted, and that I’d need an entourage to
balance the charisma that I so naturally radiate. And so I assembled the Paris
7, and off we went to the most glamorous four day stretch the feeble mind is
capable of imagining: Haute Couture Week, when fashion’s top designers
showcase their new collections at over-the-top shows attended by stars,
magazine editors, and women with a lot of lip collagen. It’s not just the shows
that are so exciting but the anticipation, the parties, the sightings and the
feeling you’re amongst the most celebrated, creative and over-paid people in
all the universe.
A caveat: the Travel Snob likes to think of himself as the center of the
universe, naturally, but this adventure required some real star power, and not
the pixie dust I’ve been known to project in the air to make my arrival that much
more mystical. And so I enlisted the most glamorous person I know who’d be
willing to spend a week with me and my friends, err, work-related colleagues
doing very important business: the divine Eva La Rue, star of CBS’ “CSI:
Miami,” and known to daytime audiences for her 12-year-role on the soap
opera “All My Children.” Sure, she might have filled out a restraining order in
advance, stocked up on mace and packed a bunch of Purelle, but she was
nevertheless excited (ok, willing) to travel with our entourage because, really,
what girl wouldn’t want to spend a week in Paris seeing all the haute couture
shows? Even if it meant spending time with us. The fact that her boyfriend at
the time was a big, beefy, ex-Patriot gave her some comfort, but he turned out
to be so cool and fun we stopped thinking of him as her security detail within a
few seconds of meeting.
And that’s where the trouble began, folks (the fashion shows, silly, not our
ever-expanding entourage, although they did wreck havoc on the hotel bill, for
sure). From the moment we’d stepped onto French soil the fighting began, and
let me just say had the French fought as hard for their country as they do over
fashion week the Nazis would have waved the white flag a long time before,
and it would have been Hermes.
One by one, the fashion labels began un-confirming our seats, with
excuses as lame as over-booking, not enough chairs, Lagerfeld has a cold,
Giorgio doesn’t speak English, Anna Wintour needs an extra seat for her
notebook …. Suddenly, the prospect of going to Paris without attending a
single show loomed heavily on my mind, as did the final bill from the Ritz Paris,
which has some nerve charging $60 for a hamburger and $40 for an in-room
movie. The encounters with the demon spawns controlling the seating charts
grew more and more heated, as did the Gestapo publicity squads attempting to
man handle the press. Nasty is just too generous a word to describe the
communications from these people. I’d say “with” but that would imply an actual
two-way conversation. Instead, we encountered a barrage of “no,” “go away,”
“are you crazy?” “stop calling,” “we’re going to have to call security” and my all-
time favorite “maybe next year.”
The Travel Snob is not one to take such rejection lightly, and fortunately
neither was my crew. And so we leapt into action with all the intensity of the first
20 minutes of “Saving Private Ryan,” without, you know, limbs and stuff (but
close). While producer Chris worked the phones and got us into Jean Paul
Gautier and Elie Sabb, stylist Angelique let her fingers do all the walking to Van
Cleef and Arpels off Place Vendome, which lent Eva a few million in stones for
the show. Our big coup came when we snuck six people into the Valentino
show, the hardest ticket to come by but surprisingly with the most lax security.
Maybe the guards were too busy looking after Valentino’s five precious pugs to
notice a six person cavalcade whizzing right through.
We had an itinerary that would turn a smile on heavily botox’d Lily Safra,
and what started out as a crappy week suddenly became a fairy tale. Attending
the Valentino show, his last before retirement, was one of the most exciting
nights of my life, as I sat across from Uma Thurman, Lucy Liu and “Gossip Girl”
vixen Blake Lively, who my good friend Leona insists talks with her mouth
closed, and annoyingly so. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house as we watched
Valentino walk down the runway for his final encore to the music of “No More I
Love You’s,” even if that song makes no sense whatsoever. Something tells me
Annie’s British invasion involved the medicine cabinet.
I’m no fashionista, but one couldn’t help get caught up in the glamour and
artistry of the runway, and seeing all those gorgeous, hand-crafted gowns
gracefully walk by. From Valentino, which struck a classy note, to Gautier,
which was outlandish and whimsical, all the couture on display was exceptional.
Making the week even more special was The Ritz Paris, despite the prices.
Within hours of arriving found ourselves standing among the A list, from
Lagerfeld to Galliano, and even Anna Wintour, who kept the Chanel show
waiting as she examined her dinner party at The Ritz, another event we were
un-invited to. It was at the point the hotel’s general manager Omer took pity on
us and took us under his wing, pointing our celebrities and sharing stories from
his days at The Four Seasons, one of which involved the Sultan of Brunei and
a 747 fly-over. I so have to meet this guy.
Omer even dialed up the hotel’s owner, Mohammad al Fayed, who wished Eva
good blessings and a happy stay at his hotel, and then asked her to be a
witness in his case against the British government
With a week like this, how could we not?
| Those Fashion Fights Come from Everywhere |
| (especially Paris Couture Week) |