| Happy Due Year! |
| The Travel Snob Parties Like Its 1999 But His Citibank Balance May Have More Digits |
If you were to have told me I’d be spending New Year’s Eve at the
legendary Ritz Paris, partying with members of the Saudi royal family I’d say you
were raiding the same medicine cabinet as I’ve been and that the Clonzepam
can sometimes trigger delusions of grandeur (or just delusions in my case). But
there I was, dancing, eating and laughing throughout the night with my own little
harem of oil sheiks and their offspring, ringing in the New Year in a manner I
could never justify on a tax return, especially because I only have $7 in my
checking account.
Here’s the back story. Well, it’s not so much a story than a desperate plea
to celebrate the holiday somewhere other than my cozy little east side
apartment where the only fireworks awaiting me was a marathon of “Law &
Order” on TNT, and if you think that constitutes as celebration then our stash of
happy pills may be due for refill. The truth is I’ve never been one to embrace
New Year’s, mostly because by that time I’m exhausted by Christmas travels
and completely paranoid of what a new year will bring. If I had a panic room I’d
spend it there as long as there was digital cable and enough Jameson to last
through one of Dick Cheney’s Doomsday scenarios. But I could do without
Jodie Foster and her little brat.
So desperate to spice up the holiday (and by spice I mean something
other than District Attorney Schiff’s euphemisms for “you don’t have a case,”
like “close the door, I smell an acquittal” or my favorite “without fingerprints you’
ve got Peter Pan”), I convinced my good friend Mateo to join me in an
impromptu trip to Paris where we’d welcome the new year in style and seal the
deal for my inevitable bankruptcy. What judge wouldn’t be impressed by a three
button single-breasted Kiton suit, made to measure Ermenegildo Zegna shirt
and natty Dunhill tie?!?! – the perfect ensemble for financial calamity (but
hopefully judicial mercy).
Hosting us (i.e., accepting my credit card) was the legendary Four
Seasons George V, one of the world’s best hotels, and getting a little cocky
about it, too. How else to explain the demand for payment? Its New Year’s Eve
party was also way beyond my credit line, and knowing my stalker Patrice over
at Citibank Mastercard would never authorize the room and the event, I instead
found an even more outrageous way to spend the evening: dinner at the
legendary Ritz Paris, where Coco Chanel once famously bedded Nazi officers
during the occupation and which thankfully has a delayed billing system.
Because how I could afford this was not my concern this evening, or any for
that matter. Why ruin such a festive occasion with the annoyance of reality?
And that it is: an annoyance. Citibank can go cry into a big bag of debt. They’ll
get their money back the way God intended it -- minimum payments over the
next 10 years.
Especially after the bill for our room, which was small for $900 a night but
stylish enough for two status-conscious lads who had no business being there
in the first place. Someone who does is Keith Richards, who only stays at The
George V when visiting Paris, so much so it has a collection of his apology
letters for all to see in the lobby, right next to the insurance payoff from Sarkozy’
s last tantrum. Sadly, the most rebellious thing I did was steal the Bvglari bath
products and I think those might have been free anyway.
Name dropping The George V definitely gave us entrée with the in-crowd
throughout the week, during which I learned protocol for first class travel to
Paris. First, don’t do anything to distinguish yourself American, which is still not
in vogue these days, and the Obamas’ white elephant gift giving-spree across
Europe certainly didn’t help. This means no mocking French berets, fanny
packs or eating triple dipper ice-cream cones as you walk down the Champs-
Elysees. Second, everyone in Paris speaks English anyway so leave the pocket
translators and broken French at home. Third: the best hamburger you will ever
have in your life can be found at a mobster-themed restaurant called Bugsy’s,
which is a short walk from the American Embassy. And last, there are only five
suitable hotels to stay in all Paris: the aforementioned George V, The Ritz, the
stylish Hotel Plaza Athénée, Le Maurice and The Hotel de Crillon. Anywhere
else and you might as well be at a youth hostile with Serge and Stanka from
Amsterdam visiting for a midnight rave in the red light district.
Those were just a few of the profiteroles of knowledge we digested during
the dinner at The Ritz, which drew quite the international crowd for its New Year’
s celebration, many of them smokers whose presence I was forced to bear while
accompanying Mateo outside every 10 minutes or so. It was there we met half
our new friends from the Saudi royal family as well as others dripping in Armani,
Chanel and Hermes. Me? I was just dripping sweat.
They were there for the dinner celebration too, and while the tab might
have been 650 Euros per guest (pocket change for them; rent for me), it was
fantastic nevertheless, even if the food was less than memorable. The mood
was festive all night and grew more so by the hour, to the point where guest
who’d started off as strangers became willing spitball foes by midnight. As soon
as the clock struck 12 the scene turned into full Romper Room as we all dove
into our party favors with the zeal of Bernie Madoff in a pension fund. What
ensued was a lot of confetti throwing, food tossing, ice-hurling and hugging of
complete strangers, one of which may have been Roman Polanski.
And the night didn’t end there. Afterwards, while Mateo formed his own
entourage of Middle Eastern women (and proceeded to ask one drunken shish
ka if he could have her diamond necklace; one more Bellini and I’m convinced it
could have been his), I joined a dance off in the Ritz’s Bar Hemingway, where
we turned the tiny venue into a swinging night club. For several hours I boogied
with folks from as far as Sri Lanka, in addition to an older German man
announcing himself as Helmet Kohl, the former Prime Minister of Germany. I
doubted Helmet could go low, low, low (or hit the flo’) but he surprised me with
his agility. Of course I wasn’t what you would call coherent at this point.
How I ended the night, I’m not quite sure. All I can remember is having lost
an Hermes scarf at the Prince de Gales hotel during an after party thrown by
my new best friend Mubarak, and spent that next Thursday trying to track it,
and him, down. In between I summoned enough energy to have tea and drinks
at The Hotel Plaza Athénée, where I indulged in Thierry Hernadez’s famous
“Fashion Ice” frozen cocktails.
And that is how I spent my holiday.
Room at the Georve V. Citibank will have to wait for their money
back.
Dinner at The Ritz Paris? The foie gras will have to last a lot longer than
one night.
Celebrating New Year’s Eve in Paris? Priceless.
I’ll be paying it off for the rest of my life, surely. But the memories from that
night will stay with me at least until my next blackout.
legendary Ritz Paris, partying with members of the Saudi royal family I’d say you
were raiding the same medicine cabinet as I’ve been and that the Clonzepam
can sometimes trigger delusions of grandeur (or just delusions in my case). But
there I was, dancing, eating and laughing throughout the night with my own little
harem of oil sheiks and their offspring, ringing in the New Year in a manner I
could never justify on a tax return, especially because I only have $7 in my
checking account.
Here’s the back story. Well, it’s not so much a story than a desperate plea
to celebrate the holiday somewhere other than my cozy little east side
apartment where the only fireworks awaiting me was a marathon of “Law &
Order” on TNT, and if you think that constitutes as celebration then our stash of
happy pills may be due for refill. The truth is I’ve never been one to embrace
New Year’s, mostly because by that time I’m exhausted by Christmas travels
and completely paranoid of what a new year will bring. If I had a panic room I’d
spend it there as long as there was digital cable and enough Jameson to last
through one of Dick Cheney’s Doomsday scenarios. But I could do without
Jodie Foster and her little brat.
So desperate to spice up the holiday (and by spice I mean something
other than District Attorney Schiff’s euphemisms for “you don’t have a case,”
like “close the door, I smell an acquittal” or my favorite “without fingerprints you’
ve got Peter Pan”), I convinced my good friend Mateo to join me in an
impromptu trip to Paris where we’d welcome the new year in style and seal the
deal for my inevitable bankruptcy. What judge wouldn’t be impressed by a three
button single-breasted Kiton suit, made to measure Ermenegildo Zegna shirt
and natty Dunhill tie?!?! – the perfect ensemble for financial calamity (but
hopefully judicial mercy).
Hosting us (i.e., accepting my credit card) was the legendary Four
Seasons George V, one of the world’s best hotels, and getting a little cocky
about it, too. How else to explain the demand for payment? Its New Year’s Eve
party was also way beyond my credit line, and knowing my stalker Patrice over
at Citibank Mastercard would never authorize the room and the event, I instead
found an even more outrageous way to spend the evening: dinner at the
legendary Ritz Paris, where Coco Chanel once famously bedded Nazi officers
during the occupation and which thankfully has a delayed billing system.
Because how I could afford this was not my concern this evening, or any for
that matter. Why ruin such a festive occasion with the annoyance of reality?
And that it is: an annoyance. Citibank can go cry into a big bag of debt. They’ll
get their money back the way God intended it -- minimum payments over the
next 10 years.
Especially after the bill for our room, which was small for $900 a night but
stylish enough for two status-conscious lads who had no business being there
in the first place. Someone who does is Keith Richards, who only stays at The
George V when visiting Paris, so much so it has a collection of his apology
letters for all to see in the lobby, right next to the insurance payoff from Sarkozy’
s last tantrum. Sadly, the most rebellious thing I did was steal the Bvglari bath
products and I think those might have been free anyway.
Name dropping The George V definitely gave us entrée with the in-crowd
throughout the week, during which I learned protocol for first class travel to
Paris. First, don’t do anything to distinguish yourself American, which is still not
in vogue these days, and the Obamas’ white elephant gift giving-spree across
Europe certainly didn’t help. This means no mocking French berets, fanny
packs or eating triple dipper ice-cream cones as you walk down the Champs-
Elysees. Second, everyone in Paris speaks English anyway so leave the pocket
translators and broken French at home. Third: the best hamburger you will ever
have in your life can be found at a mobster-themed restaurant called Bugsy’s,
which is a short walk from the American Embassy. And last, there are only five
suitable hotels to stay in all Paris: the aforementioned George V, The Ritz, the
stylish Hotel Plaza Athénée, Le Maurice and The Hotel de Crillon. Anywhere
else and you might as well be at a youth hostile with Serge and Stanka from
Amsterdam visiting for a midnight rave in the red light district.
Those were just a few of the profiteroles of knowledge we digested during
the dinner at The Ritz, which drew quite the international crowd for its New Year’
s celebration, many of them smokers whose presence I was forced to bear while
accompanying Mateo outside every 10 minutes or so. It was there we met half
our new friends from the Saudi royal family as well as others dripping in Armani,
Chanel and Hermes. Me? I was just dripping sweat.
They were there for the dinner celebration too, and while the tab might
have been 650 Euros per guest (pocket change for them; rent for me), it was
fantastic nevertheless, even if the food was less than memorable. The mood
was festive all night and grew more so by the hour, to the point where guest
who’d started off as strangers became willing spitball foes by midnight. As soon
as the clock struck 12 the scene turned into full Romper Room as we all dove
into our party favors with the zeal of Bernie Madoff in a pension fund. What
ensued was a lot of confetti throwing, food tossing, ice-hurling and hugging of
complete strangers, one of which may have been Roman Polanski.
And the night didn’t end there. Afterwards, while Mateo formed his own
entourage of Middle Eastern women (and proceeded to ask one drunken shish
ka if he could have her diamond necklace; one more Bellini and I’m convinced it
could have been his), I joined a dance off in the Ritz’s Bar Hemingway, where
we turned the tiny venue into a swinging night club. For several hours I boogied
with folks from as far as Sri Lanka, in addition to an older German man
announcing himself as Helmet Kohl, the former Prime Minister of Germany. I
doubted Helmet could go low, low, low (or hit the flo’) but he surprised me with
his agility. Of course I wasn’t what you would call coherent at this point.
How I ended the night, I’m not quite sure. All I can remember is having lost
an Hermes scarf at the Prince de Gales hotel during an after party thrown by
my new best friend Mubarak, and spent that next Thursday trying to track it,
and him, down. In between I summoned enough energy to have tea and drinks
at The Hotel Plaza Athénée, where I indulged in Thierry Hernadez’s famous
“Fashion Ice” frozen cocktails.
And that is how I spent my holiday.
Room at the Georve V. Citibank will have to wait for their money
back.
Dinner at The Ritz Paris? The foie gras will have to last a lot longer than
one night.
Celebrating New Year’s Eve in Paris? Priceless.
I’ll be paying it off for the rest of my life, surely. But the memories from that
night will stay with me at least until my next blackout.
