Delusions of Glamour: The Time I Went to Spain and Told Lies to My Boyfriend

Ch. 11: Dear AJ--My High-Fashion Trip to Paris!

TRIP TO PARIS!

Yo, AJ, what up? 

One of my rommates moved out. Don’t know why, don’t know where, didn’t really even know if she was Laura or Ana. By process of elimination I should be able to tell who’s who among the remaining two. But now I get my own bathroom! The first thing I did was leave my stuff everywhere. Ahh, bliss.

Oh! And the hair-dresser roommate asked me to be a model!!! Huge progress! Not only is she acknowledging my existence, she’s suggesting I might be pretty. Hooray! Well, there’s a catch. She called and asked me over the phone, and I’m almost positive she was asking me to be a make-up model for something her friend was organizing. The problem is I always get the words for ‘make-up’ and ‘butter’ mixed up: maquillaje vs. mantequilla. Butter and make-up are two things I use on the regular, so I should be ready either way. In any event, hopefully she was calling to ask me to model make-up, not model butter. Uh-oh, calling to ask me if I used her butter? Maybe ‘model’ is a brand of Spanish margarine? In the end, I couldn’t do it anyways (whatever it was) because I was going to Paris that day. Which brings me to my next point…

Paris. The most fanciful city on the planet. Gorgeous, inside and out. The people, insanely beautiful, even at nine in the morning. Well, I was never up at nine in the morning, but I bet they looked good. I went to the City of Lights to visit my childhood best friend Beva and her husband Stratis, they’re fashion photographers and have been dividing their time the last few years between Paris, Brazil, and wherever else in the world they want to travel. They have a really beautiful life full of interesting people, glamorous vacations, and exciting work, yet they’ve managed to stay completely unpretentious and just fun to be around. And did they spoil me! I had some of the best food of my life over the four days, they took me to the best pastry shop in Paris and I had this unbelievable strawberries and cream cake thing. Ohmigod. It was so good, creamy, strawberries….I need a minute.

So, imagine my delight when Beva tells me they are doing a shoot for Amica, an Italian fashion magazine, the first day I will be there and I can come along to watch! And because it would be a bit strange to just have me tagging along like a tourist, Beva told the client and her agent (photographers have agents as well, turns out) that I was not only just her good friend but also a writer for Rolling Stone. Dios Mio! I interned at Rolling Stone sophomore year so at least I know what the offices look like. So on the airplane to Paris I came up with all kinds of background explanations about why I was in Spain/Paris (doing research for a story, which ever-so-slightly suggested that I was an important enough writer to be sent on assignment) and why I was so young yet already working (I graduated early, which ever-so-modestly suggested I was either a child prodigy or had some famous connections, both of which were fine with me).

Then I find out the agent’s boyfriend is in a band. Uh-oh. So I prepared for potential questions about making it in the business (on which I have no fucking idea) and thought of some encouraging yet vague clichés (“It’s all about who you know,” “You just have to be in the right place at the right time,”). It was go-time when I went straight from the airport to meet Beva, Stratis, the agent, and the client at a restaurant (perfectly named Ze Kitchen, how French!). Alas, despite all my preparation, the agent sat on the other side of the table and the girl sitting next to me spoke little English and no one ever asked me anything about myself or my “work.” Damn.

The next day was the shoot for Amica. It was like a movie, music playing, photo assistants running around, a gorgeous Norwegian model named Ingrid, flamboyant make-up and hair stylists, endless shots of espresso, and me sitting there, taking it all in. And to watch Beva and Stratis work was very interesting, how Beva acts out the poses they want the model to do and how they choose the perfect picture from dozens that all look the same to me, yet in the end is obviously the best one. At the end of the day I even got to get behind the camera and see what it was like, and for fun Beva took some pictures of me! I’ve never felt more like a star, or more ridiculous. She had the assistants, well, assisting, and even brought out a wind machine to blow my hair around like you see in the magazines! Except my hair kept getting stuck in my mouth and in the shots where I’m trying to look smoldering and sexy I just look constipated. Oh, well.

The rest of the weekend was spent visiting the Palace of Versailles (gorgeous and unbelievable gardens), the Pompidou (the modern-art museum with a bunch of freaky abstract stuff I didn’t understand at all) and having endless five-hour talks with Beva, like we have since we were kids. In short, a very memorable, relaxing time.

Love,

HOLLY