It seems that French parenting, just like everything else stemming from this part of the world, is having a moment. Glancing at the endless “be more French” baby books lining airport kiosks, you would think that French women have discovered the Holy Grail of motherhood, one that miraculously transforms this scary and exhausting endeavor into an effortless exercise, one complete with calm babies, lithe bodies, sexually content husbands, and impeccable wardrobes.
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They say Paris would be perfect without Parisians. “They” have clearly never heard of Paris Fashion Week, the one time of the year when this sleepy little village is flooded by fresh international blood, practically annihilating its French inhabitants and transforming it into an outpost of New York. Personally, I thrive on this for exactly three days – up until the moment when I am forced share my Le Progrès banquette with one to many Americans, all of which seem to have invisible loudspeakers tucked into their designer lapels. Nonetheless, it is undoubtedly a fun time in the city, providing endless opportunities to intermingle with the locals and spice up your dating palette. For those of you young fashion creatures visiting the City of Light and Love and seeking for a temporary distraction, I have created a guide that will help you utilize PFW to your romantic advantage.
When I was twenty-two, I graduated to the shittiest economy known to man and was forced to take a job for some crook who was trying to launder money under the pretense of a luxury consulting company. Said crook needed a team of employees to keep up the facade, so he rented an office in Chelsea and hired myself and a few other innocent kids to back the whole thing up.
One day, I was sitting in the office, sending out bogus emails, when a man came in to set up our brand-new (contraband) iMacs. His name was JP, he was the owner of some shady software installation company, and he was fascinating. About 7 feet tall, he was dressed like the most badass b*tch you’ll ever see: leather jacket, layers of black, tattoo sleeved, black nail polish – a real Rick Owens man in soul and spirit. After two hours of watching me crawl on the floor in leggings-as-pants in an effort to “assist” him, he eagerly asked me for my number, which I just as eagerly gave to him.
Yes, I went there. Go ahead and crucify me. But let me explain first.
The idea for this article did not come to me while sipping a 35-euro, perversely-named cocktail at the Plaza Athénée, inspiring me to share the pearls of my gold digging wisdom with the rest of the female population. No, this particular stroke of genius took place at the far more democratic Le Progrès, as a 37-year old TV director in chambray introduced me to “The VICE Guide to Dating Rich Girls”, a piece of high journalistic significance to him. Always on the lookout for a highbrow literary mission, I immediately did an internal Barney Stinson-esque fist pump, accompanied by the ubiquitous “Challenge accepted!”
When you’re in my business of failed dating (actually, its quite possible that I monopolize the industry), you frequently run out of content and are forced to look for it elsewhere. (Luckily though, I have my Muse..) And yet, occasionally, little gifts fall into your lap, which is what happened last weekend with the case of the Weinergate.
It was Sunday and we were having a long hungover brunch at Hotel Amour, the kind of brunch when you worry that the staff will slip a laxative in your 10th OJ just to get you out of there, when two of my friends decided that they were going to “finally get me boned”. They hijacked my phone, opened up my contact list and typed in “Tinder”. This resulted in three contenders: Colombian Tinder, David Tinder and a third one – lets just call him Anthony Weiner Tinder. They send all of them the same message – a subtle “Hey sexy”. While the other two tactfully ignored it, Anthony Weiner immediately responded with a “Hey sexy” back. Excited, my friends invited him to come with us to see “50 Shades of Grey”, a film that apparently turned “me” on immensely.
Exactly one year ago, I got into my first street fight.
No, I did not weave my way into a passionate love triangle, or fall subject of a dramatic mugging. Instead, I simply got in way over my head with a bunch of drunken French fools.
Let’s backtrack. It was February of last year, and Muse and I were having dinner with a few friends at Le Dauphin in the 11th. Amongst them were: a fashion designer, his (slightly more masculine) best friend, another guy and a model he happened to be in love with. The guy and the model left early to go meet other friends, while the four of us stayed at the restaurant to finish up our wine and long raunchy conversation. As we were getting ready to leave, we received a call from the guy: “Come to Tabac on Rue des Francs Bourgeois in Marais! It’s so much fun here!” (FYI, a Tabac in France is usually a simple café that sells cigarettes, alcohol and coffee, i.e. a one-stop-shop for all your vices.)
