| Forget Paris? Au contraire! |
| The Travel Snob Surrenders to the Charm of Paris, and Finds the Perfect Hermes Scarf to Wave his White Flag |
“This is not a car-ne-val!” the front desk attendant huffed, in full
Parisian snit.
The offense? Asking for a bigger room – with a couch, no less – to
shield moi from the insufferable snores emitting from mon frère. Our beds
were remarkably close together, and I feared desperation might grab hold
in the middle of the night and I’d be forced to sling this most beloved
member of my family out the window and onto Rue St. Honore Faibourg.
In case you haven’t noticed, nothing gets between the Travel Snob and a
full night's sleep, not even blood. I pity the fool who wrinkles my 1200-
thread count Pratesi bed sheets.
Well you would have thought I called him a cheese-eating surrender
monkey by the way he reacted, and yet I was simultaneously in awe of his
tantrum, with arms a’ flailing around like a mental patient whose Thorazine
was beginning to wear off, but nary a bead of sweat, jumbled word, un-
tucked shirt or hair out of place. I thought of asking him how he does it
(and who does his dry cleaning … magnifique!), but became momentarily
speechless, and that’s saying a lot for someone who was expelled from
kindergarten because he wouldn’t keep his mouth shut, although eating
paste may have had something to do with it.
It was definitely one of the more memorable encounters I’ve had with
the name-tag wearing sect, and it certainly made my first time to Paris
more lively, even if it was supposed to be a work trip engineered through
my real job (yes, someone dares put the Travel Snob on full payroll …
they even offer me refills), which I magically turned into a mini-vacation.
The premise? A week-long “photo shoot” that would require a plane full of
my friends, err, professional work colleagues to facilitate. That was the
brilliant plan I had hatched, designed to get me to the City of Lights
without having to empty my 401K to do it. Other folks have gone for less,
but the Travel Snob is, afterall, The Travel Snob.
That’s just how he floats.
And so this particular journey was a hodge-podge of the finest
Parisian hotels, restaurants and attractions, meticulously strung together
to avoid paying a dime. The “work” part of the trip involved six days and
nights at the legendary Hotel de Crillon, in which we single-handedly
turned the lobby, hallways and suites into a circ – oh, excuse me, “car-ne-
val” I think they might have lost a white flag on account of our stay.
The truth is The Crillon could not have been more accommodating, and
provided the perfect backdrop for a very sleek, stylish photo shoot
featuring someone who is going to be a very big star but who will never
admit to having taken this trip with us.
Spending a week at the hotel rates up there among my favorite
memories, although the way I’ve been drinking these days there aren’t too
many left. Commissioned in 1758 by the King of France, the Crillon is
majestic from beginning to end, although its concierge could use a daily
smack in the face and reminder that he’s standing behind a desk and
wearing nametag. Uniquely positioned on the city’s Place de la Concorde,
the notorious square where Marie Antoinette was famously beheaded, this
“Corinthian colonnaded palace” has hosted everyone from Winston
Churchill to Elizabeth Taylor and the Dalai Lama. It’s also where Lance
Armstrong set up camp during the Tour de France, back when he was
interesting and not just arm candy for the increasingly annoying Matthew
McConaughey. Featuring 103 guestrooms and 44 suites, the property
served as the private home of the Count de Crillon until the Taittinger
family, famous for the champagne, purchased it in the early 20th century
and turned it into a hotel, complete with gorgeous Baccarat chandeliers,
orchids, silk draperies, Aubusson rugs, polished marble and snarky help.
My personal favorite amenity was the heated bathroom floors, which
was a nice touch considering I have a bladder the size of a peanut and
spent a good portion of my nights having to tinkle after drinking untold
Apple Martinis, back when I drank those and not the more manly Jameson
I’ve become accustomed to. It was liberating, in those dark and fruity days,
to order an AppleTini without the scorn/ condemnation/ pity of the entire
room. In the states requesting said drink is tantamount to declaring
yourself a Clay Head and placing bets on who will win the next Idol. But
here in Paris they appreciate such diversity (considering they gave us the
mime, they’d better). Let’s face it, France is the AppleTini of the modern
world – sour, fancy, effete and not for everybody.
Luckily, I had my very own entourage to keep my AppleTini intake in
check, though why they didn’t beat me senseless for ordering such a
ridiculous cocktail will certainly be reflected on their next performance
review, if I actually did those.
Now the trick to assembling the perfect entourage is having the kind
of dynamic personality that attracts the right hangers-on. Giving them
cash also works. Since I had neither, I resorted to barter, offering an all-
expense trip to Paris in return for a few days of work. After promising to
never wear the color mustard in her sight, I was able to convince
acclaimed stylist Angie (see “Berlin, How To Stage a Walk Off”) to serve
as fashion director for our photo shoot. And since we needed someone to
take the photos instead of me just doodling the images, I lobbied our
resident shutterbug John, who in turn invited his teenage daughter, an
integral piece of the puzzle given she doesn’t drink and could thus be
relied on to get us home every night. Finally, after realizing none of us
knew where we were actually going, we added to our brood the fabulous
Rachel Kaplan, whose company, French Links (www.frenchlinks.com or
331-45-77-01-63), provides the best tours of Paris, whether it’s a day,
evening or week. The woman can give the most seasoned Parisian a run
for their Euros, but her brassy, New York sensibilities peppered our
journeys with much humor.
During the day we traveled the city by chauffeured mini-van, as
Rachel pointed out all the monuments, historical sights, architectural feats,
what have you. She crammed a lot into a limited number of days, but we
pretty much saw everything, from the Eiffel Tower to the Arc de Triumph,
Notre Dame and the Louvre. All what you expect, except there weren’t any
hunchbacks ringing the tower bell and Tom Hanks was not pretending to
jump from a bathroom atop the Louvre. Even if he was, he would have
landed in an entirely different bureau de poste because the movie took
some liberties with the actual floor-plan of the museum, making his
fantastical feat in The Da Vinci Code technically impossible (although
entirely believable is the two thousand year global conspiracy involving
Jesus, Mary and their unborn child!??!!). We would have not known any of
this were it not for the sublime Mrs. Kaplan, who knew her history better
than the most studied professor.
Not so up on his facts was a guide we would call Shaggy, who led us
on his own Da Vinci Code tour at night throughout Paris, which began at
the Ritz Hotel and ended at a Starbucks. There, we studiously examined
the chain’s logo for some evidence of hidden treasure or church savagery
but came away only with the after taste of burnt coffee. Shaggy’s clueless
scavenger hunt was a bust, so much so that when we repeated some of
his facts the next day to Rachel (like about how the Church sends its army
of albino mutes to crush worldwide rebellion and spoil Idol votes) Rachel
spit out her hot chocolate and shouted “Well, I don’t know what the
Shaggy Dog told you, but that’s just wrong.” For the record, she offers her
own Da Vinci Code tour (quelle surprise).
We also got “Ritz-Slapped” when we entered the iconic Ritz as mere
tourists, and were turned around just as quickly because we were not
guests. It’s a shame Henri Paul wasn’t still working security, we would have
whizzed right through. Instead, we patiently waited for Francois to go tinkle
(perhaps he had too many AppleTinis), and then sped through the lobby
en route to the legendary Bar Hemingway in the back of the hotel. Though
small (there are maybe ten tables in the joint), we were dazzled by
bartender Colin Field on the origin of the cocktail and the history of
drinking in Paris.
Later on there was also a very expensive dinner at Jules Verne in the
Eiffel Tower, which was so pricey we were forced to split on three credit
cards. And I’ll never quite forget drinking the legendary hot chocolate at
the Angelina Café, where we came across a contraption we would dub the
“Fadapter," whose origins can be traced back to the fat westerner. The
restaurant sat us at a very small table that in America would have fit two
people (or Jessica Simpson on break from Tony Romo) but here in fancy
cheese land they sat all four of us. Once the host noticed we were literally
spilling into the aisle he plopped down beside us a wobbly card table that
could charitably be called a foot rest. It was about as inconspicuous as
Dina Lohan in a swag suite, and one survey of the restaurant revealed we
were the only party to have needed the hence named “fat adaptor.”
Of course by the end of the week we were very fat, not to mention
broke and very much in need of a week of spa treatments and smoothies
at Promises. I was ready to climb aboard the plane with my brethren back
to the states when I realized I had four more days left in Paris, including
Christmas. And so for the rest of the time, as mes copains left for parts
unknown I prepared to celebrate the holidays alongside my brother at two
more amazing hotels – the George V and the Hotel Plaza Athénée, known
to TV audiences as the setting for Carrie and Big’s Parisian reunion near
the end of “Sex and the City.” Both properties are widely considered two of
the best in the world, and even me, the hardened, cynical hotel critic fell
victim to their charms. Though I missed my entourage, I enjoyed spending
those last few days with my brother as we celebrated the holidays, and the
good fortunate that allowed such an amazing journey. I also enjoyed a
vodka massage at the George V, the fashion ice cocktail at Le Bar @
Plaza Athénée and dinner at Alain Ducasse, and then finally a shopping
spree down Rue du Faubourg St. Honore, which I'm prohibited from
expensing (zut alors!)
Viva la France!
Parisian snit.
The offense? Asking for a bigger room – with a couch, no less – to
shield moi from the insufferable snores emitting from mon frère. Our beds
were remarkably close together, and I feared desperation might grab hold
in the middle of the night and I’d be forced to sling this most beloved
member of my family out the window and onto Rue St. Honore Faibourg.
In case you haven’t noticed, nothing gets between the Travel Snob and a
full night's sleep, not even blood. I pity the fool who wrinkles my 1200-
thread count Pratesi bed sheets.
Well you would have thought I called him a cheese-eating surrender
monkey by the way he reacted, and yet I was simultaneously in awe of his
tantrum, with arms a’ flailing around like a mental patient whose Thorazine
was beginning to wear off, but nary a bead of sweat, jumbled word, un-
tucked shirt or hair out of place. I thought of asking him how he does it
(and who does his dry cleaning … magnifique!), but became momentarily
speechless, and that’s saying a lot for someone who was expelled from
kindergarten because he wouldn’t keep his mouth shut, although eating
paste may have had something to do with it.
It was definitely one of the more memorable encounters I’ve had with
the name-tag wearing sect, and it certainly made my first time to Paris
more lively, even if it was supposed to be a work trip engineered through
my real job (yes, someone dares put the Travel Snob on full payroll …
they even offer me refills), which I magically turned into a mini-vacation.
The premise? A week-long “photo shoot” that would require a plane full of
my friends, err, professional work colleagues to facilitate. That was the
brilliant plan I had hatched, designed to get me to the City of Lights
without having to empty my 401K to do it. Other folks have gone for less,
but the Travel Snob is, afterall, The Travel Snob.
That’s just how he floats.
And so this particular journey was a hodge-podge of the finest
Parisian hotels, restaurants and attractions, meticulously strung together
to avoid paying a dime. The “work” part of the trip involved six days and
nights at the legendary Hotel de Crillon, in which we single-handedly
turned the lobby, hallways and suites into a circ – oh, excuse me, “car-ne-
val” I think they might have lost a white flag on account of our stay.
The truth is The Crillon could not have been more accommodating, and
provided the perfect backdrop for a very sleek, stylish photo shoot
featuring someone who is going to be a very big star but who will never
admit to having taken this trip with us.
Spending a week at the hotel rates up there among my favorite
memories, although the way I’ve been drinking these days there aren’t too
many left. Commissioned in 1758 by the King of France, the Crillon is
majestic from beginning to end, although its concierge could use a daily
smack in the face and reminder that he’s standing behind a desk and
wearing nametag. Uniquely positioned on the city’s Place de la Concorde,
the notorious square where Marie Antoinette was famously beheaded, this
“Corinthian colonnaded palace” has hosted everyone from Winston
Churchill to Elizabeth Taylor and the Dalai Lama. It’s also where Lance
Armstrong set up camp during the Tour de France, back when he was
interesting and not just arm candy for the increasingly annoying Matthew
McConaughey. Featuring 103 guestrooms and 44 suites, the property
served as the private home of the Count de Crillon until the Taittinger
family, famous for the champagne, purchased it in the early 20th century
and turned it into a hotel, complete with gorgeous Baccarat chandeliers,
orchids, silk draperies, Aubusson rugs, polished marble and snarky help.
My personal favorite amenity was the heated bathroom floors, which
was a nice touch considering I have a bladder the size of a peanut and
spent a good portion of my nights having to tinkle after drinking untold
Apple Martinis, back when I drank those and not the more manly Jameson
I’ve become accustomed to. It was liberating, in those dark and fruity days,
to order an AppleTini without the scorn/ condemnation/ pity of the entire
room. In the states requesting said drink is tantamount to declaring
yourself a Clay Head and placing bets on who will win the next Idol. But
here in Paris they appreciate such diversity (considering they gave us the
mime, they’d better). Let’s face it, France is the AppleTini of the modern
world – sour, fancy, effete and not for everybody.
Luckily, I had my very own entourage to keep my AppleTini intake in
check, though why they didn’t beat me senseless for ordering such a
ridiculous cocktail will certainly be reflected on their next performance
review, if I actually did those.
Now the trick to assembling the perfect entourage is having the kind
of dynamic personality that attracts the right hangers-on. Giving them
cash also works. Since I had neither, I resorted to barter, offering an all-
expense trip to Paris in return for a few days of work. After promising to
never wear the color mustard in her sight, I was able to convince
acclaimed stylist Angie (see “Berlin, How To Stage a Walk Off”) to serve
as fashion director for our photo shoot. And since we needed someone to
take the photos instead of me just doodling the images, I lobbied our
resident shutterbug John, who in turn invited his teenage daughter, an
integral piece of the puzzle given she doesn’t drink and could thus be
relied on to get us home every night. Finally, after realizing none of us
knew where we were actually going, we added to our brood the fabulous
Rachel Kaplan, whose company, French Links (www.frenchlinks.com or
331-45-77-01-63), provides the best tours of Paris, whether it’s a day,
evening or week. The woman can give the most seasoned Parisian a run
for their Euros, but her brassy, New York sensibilities peppered our
journeys with much humor.
During the day we traveled the city by chauffeured mini-van, as
Rachel pointed out all the monuments, historical sights, architectural feats,
what have you. She crammed a lot into a limited number of days, but we
pretty much saw everything, from the Eiffel Tower to the Arc de Triumph,
Notre Dame and the Louvre. All what you expect, except there weren’t any
hunchbacks ringing the tower bell and Tom Hanks was not pretending to
jump from a bathroom atop the Louvre. Even if he was, he would have
landed in an entirely different bureau de poste because the movie took
some liberties with the actual floor-plan of the museum, making his
fantastical feat in The Da Vinci Code technically impossible (although
entirely believable is the two thousand year global conspiracy involving
Jesus, Mary and their unborn child!??!!). We would have not known any of
this were it not for the sublime Mrs. Kaplan, who knew her history better
than the most studied professor.
Not so up on his facts was a guide we would call Shaggy, who led us
on his own Da Vinci Code tour at night throughout Paris, which began at
the Ritz Hotel and ended at a Starbucks. There, we studiously examined
the chain’s logo for some evidence of hidden treasure or church savagery
but came away only with the after taste of burnt coffee. Shaggy’s clueless
scavenger hunt was a bust, so much so that when we repeated some of
his facts the next day to Rachel (like about how the Church sends its army
of albino mutes to crush worldwide rebellion and spoil Idol votes) Rachel
spit out her hot chocolate and shouted “Well, I don’t know what the
Shaggy Dog told you, but that’s just wrong.” For the record, she offers her
own Da Vinci Code tour (quelle surprise).
We also got “Ritz-Slapped” when we entered the iconic Ritz as mere
tourists, and were turned around just as quickly because we were not
guests. It’s a shame Henri Paul wasn’t still working security, we would have
whizzed right through. Instead, we patiently waited for Francois to go tinkle
(perhaps he had too many AppleTinis), and then sped through the lobby
en route to the legendary Bar Hemingway in the back of the hotel. Though
small (there are maybe ten tables in the joint), we were dazzled by
bartender Colin Field on the origin of the cocktail and the history of
drinking in Paris.
Later on there was also a very expensive dinner at Jules Verne in the
Eiffel Tower, which was so pricey we were forced to split on three credit
cards. And I’ll never quite forget drinking the legendary hot chocolate at
the Angelina Café, where we came across a contraption we would dub the
“Fadapter," whose origins can be traced back to the fat westerner. The
restaurant sat us at a very small table that in America would have fit two
people (or Jessica Simpson on break from Tony Romo) but here in fancy
cheese land they sat all four of us. Once the host noticed we were literally
spilling into the aisle he plopped down beside us a wobbly card table that
could charitably be called a foot rest. It was about as inconspicuous as
Dina Lohan in a swag suite, and one survey of the restaurant revealed we
were the only party to have needed the hence named “fat adaptor.”
Of course by the end of the week we were very fat, not to mention
broke and very much in need of a week of spa treatments and smoothies
at Promises. I was ready to climb aboard the plane with my brethren back
to the states when I realized I had four more days left in Paris, including
Christmas. And so for the rest of the time, as mes copains left for parts
unknown I prepared to celebrate the holidays alongside my brother at two
more amazing hotels – the George V and the Hotel Plaza Athénée, known
to TV audiences as the setting for Carrie and Big’s Parisian reunion near
the end of “Sex and the City.” Both properties are widely considered two of
the best in the world, and even me, the hardened, cynical hotel critic fell
victim to their charms. Though I missed my entourage, I enjoyed spending
those last few days with my brother as we celebrated the holidays, and the
good fortunate that allowed such an amazing journey. I also enjoyed a
vodka massage at the George V, the fashion ice cocktail at Le Bar @
Plaza Athénée and dinner at Alain Ducasse, and then finally a shopping
spree down Rue du Faubourg St. Honore, which I'm prohibited from
expensing (zut alors!)
Viva la France!
