Hot-damn! Like a libidinous sparkplug, everything in Paris seems to have one very suggestive intention: to make you want to go at it like rabbits! From the moment you step off the Eurostar it's all long stemmed roses, sex shops, lover's sighs and wafts of Grace Jones pulsing from the bars. I mean even the bloody food has suggestively raw phwoar!
To be fair it actually started the moment we got on the train. Jake hadn't told me that the tickets were first class! So we sipped champagne. We giggled like schoolgirls when the sexy French Chef de Train asked us if everything was "to our satisfaction". The food was yum! I quickly devoured a mini beouf bourgignon and Jake wolfed down the Fois Gras (gross.)
The train got into Gare De Nord at about 10pm, by which point we were a bit drunk. Well actually more so me than Jake given that I had hardly eaten anything all day because of excitement. So we jumped into a taxi and made our way through the city to our hotel (making the most of our first opportunity to snog, probably to the disgust of the driver!)
The hotel was just amazing. It was on the Place D'Concorde in the 8th arrondissement, so pretty damn central. The décor was really, really beautiful and it was indeed like a set from Dangerous Liaisons. We check in. We walk the long corridor to the elevators to take us up to our room. Along the way I soak up the lashings of suave insouciance by osmosis. Paris is making me feel sexy. Therefore I am sexy.
It gets better. The hotel room, while not huge is, again, pretty damn amazing. Where hotels and I are concerned I am more of a fan of stark Japanese minimalism, but this room was something else. Really, really sumptuous. Louis IV (or something like that) furniture. Huge windows with silk draped curtains. And the biggest bed you've ever seen. No worryingly soiled top cover on this momma – this room is the antithesis of seedy. It made me feel like reciting poetry. Or just belting out the theme tune to "Home and Away".
Maybe the feeling I was feeling was the lurvemic imprint from bygone lover's trysts (either that or the internet Viagra was kicking in) but I make it clear to Jake that tonight is indeed going to be his lucky night! Cue le gay sex.
Jake had to get up early in the morning to set off to his office out at La Defense (interesting trivia - did you know that when they built La Defense they had to erect a giant glass screen to stand in the arch, because otherwise, with the right conditions, the building would create a wind tunnel that would project right down through the Arc De Triomphe, over a mile away, and literally blow people over on the Champs Elysee?) This actually really worked for me because I love walking around by myself, exploring, blending in, pretending to be a native!
After breakfast and a prolonged sesh in the bloody MASSIVE shower I plucked up the courage to call Erin to see if she still wanted to meet me. Being a busy supermodel, I was fully expecting her to blow me out in favor of lucrative shoot for Christian Laboutin or a fan shopping outing with Karl Lagerfeld. But she said that was still free so we arranged to meet for lunch in Saint Germain.
After speaking to Erin I went for a wander around the area. I found a very cute café. I sat in the window, sipped a double espresso, listened to "Rapture" by Blondie on my iPod and did some revision for my next interview ("The Dummies Guide to Starting Up a Business"!). After making my brain ache with the digestion of a few chapters on economies of scale, critical business mass and corporate venturing I decided to have a mooch up the Jardins des Tuileries (the park leading up to the Louvre.)
The Jardin des Tuileries is long. It's also quite long. Did I mention that it's long? I thought that it's length would provide the perfect setting to really get things off your chest, their chest and then back on and off again. Chest perfect! And for what would be the first of many times that day, I felt a pang of self consciousness as everyone around me seemed to be in a pair. Oldsters sat together reading papers, young lovers feeding the ducks, kids running around chasing the ducks. Ducks chasing each other. Even the runners ran in pairs! Oh. And I learned something. Fat male Parisian joggers wear very tight shorts.
By the time I got to the Louvre it was about 11.30am so I tried to decide whether I should get the Metro to Saint Germain or whether I should walk. The map made it look as if Saint Germain was actually quite close by so I decided to walk via the Pont des Arts. The Pont des Arts is the only non vehicle bridge in Paris and is great in the summer. A few years ago my friend Sharon and I had a picnic on it. The benches provide a great position for a nifty vista up and down the Seine.
Was fashionably late to meet Erin (couldn't find the bloody place!) but she was too and I waited a good fifteen minutes before she eventually turned up. I slapped her hard. The place that she picked was not at all what I was imagining it would be like (I had something like Asia de Cuba in my head!) It was actually kinda divey. But I digged the fact that it wasn't at all pretentious – she is just a normal girl from Birmingham after all.
I had a bit of a problem ordering my lunch. I speak French well enough to get by, but I am by no means fluent. I was asking for some milk for my tea and the guy just couldn't understand what I was trying to say. I kept repeating "Lait! Lait!" over and over. And then eventually he realises and goes "Ah! LAIT! Mais oui!" pronouncing it in exactly the way that I had. Stupid French people. Erin thought it was amusing and we lamented the fact that neither of us can speak any languages that well. And the fact that fat running Paris blokes wear tight shorts.
Oh Erin, Erin, Erin! Erin is gorgeous! We chat about all kinds of stuff for a good couple of hours. I totally got the scoop on Jamie (but because Erin and I are, like, such good friends I will not be betraying her confidence. Not unless you want to pay me some hard currency.) I told her about maybe moving back to NYC and she said that I should let her know if I do go back cause she spends quite a lot of time there. Great! Another cool contact I can flaunt when I have my fourth interview!
After lunch we have a little mooch around the area. Saint Germain is just designer-shop-tastic! After procrastinating over what to buy for a bit too long I make a couple of purchases in this really cool designer boutique called "Come On Eileen" which Erin informed me is Kylie's fave shop in Paris. I decided that I should get Jake something to say thank you for taking me away for the weekend. Normally I would never buy anyone clothes for a gift, but I found this really sexy black Dirk Bikkembergs top that I knew would look great on him (he has the body for Dirk B) and would be a much needed break from his usual Gap / Banana Republic get up.
But get what I bought for myself: I found what can only be described as a fierce Sonya Rykiel Homme top. It's made from matte midnight blue silk with a same colored inch thick satin trim that goes all around the edges. Elbow length sleeves and rather than buttoning up, it wraps around the waist with a really long tie at the side (think the top half of a well-fitted dressing gown.) I wore it with a pair of really old tight bootcut jeans with my new black Dolce & Gabbana boots. Not only did Erin love it (it means something when you get the approval of a supermodel), but later when I wore it out I got comment after comment on how great it looked on me! Was glad that I had fake tanned up and spent all those recent hours at the gym (just don't ask me how much it cost!)
Finally Erin and I say our farewells and I jump on the Metro and head up to Abbesses to visit the Sacre-Coeur. Like Everest (or the Kicking Donkey pub in Bath) you have to visit the Sacre-Coeur simply because it's there. The main attraction is well worth the aching ham strings from walking up what seems like a million steps (I really was stiff in all the wrong places!) The incredible view of Paris unites the crowd in a bubble of warmth - cute floppy haired French boys strum out Van Morrison on their guitars as their girlfriends gaze on adoringly. The hippy bliss-out vibe made me want to cop a feel, or maybe even feel a cop. But instead I breathlessly call Helen and Will to tell them that the most perfect thing would be to have them sat there with me, to see this awesome view.
After I got bored I went back to the hotel to watch a bit of French TV (it's crap by the way – everything is in French). After a while I realised that I had spent about half an hour gormlessly watching a French-dubbed version of Law & Order, not actually understanding anything that was happening or being said. Jake got back at about six and I presented him with his new top which he loved.
Saturday night in the Marais. Dressed at the knife edge of understated cool (thanks Sonya and Dirk!), a group of hot young things sit taking well paced sips from lavishly branded cocktails, while discreetly monitoring each new arrival. No, this was not some hot singles night but Jake and me, Jake's colleague Sandrine, her friend Sebastiene and his boyfriend Matthieu being uber at L'Etoile Marocaine.
They were all really nice and fortunately didn't mind speaking English all night! Sandrine is 30, all French chic and another lawyer in the Paris office of Jake's company. Sebastiene and I had a lot in common as he works at the Shiseido press office and funnily enough lived for a while in New York too (Jake got everyone excited by mentioning that I might be going back to New York, which I then had to play down as much as I could). But the real bloody find was Matthieu: he's 24 and works as a model. He's currently in an ad campaign for a new gay TV network in Paris called Pink TV (here is the link - he's the guy on the far right). To not put too fine a point on it, aside from the fact that he's a bit of a looker, he…is…ADORABLE! He listens so intenty and thinks that everything is amazing, like a baby fawn – all wide eyed and in awe of everything and everyone. At one point I think I suggested to Jake that we adopt him.
Sandrine pays for the bill on expenses (Jake told me later how much the bill came to. A word of warning. If you ever find yourself at that restaurant, unless you have a parachute stored under your shirt, you're going to have to confront the bill without crying). Then Sebastiene suggests that we go to some club called Le Insolite. Jake has always told me thus far that he isn't really into clubbing (he kinda clubbed himself out when he was younger) but out of all of us seems to be the most excited by the idea (I am actually desperate to go to a club, but I'm trying to be all blasé and French). So we all squash into the back of a cab and head off to Etienne Marcel.
Sebastiene tells me on the way that Le Insolite was, up until about three years ago, THE gay club to be seen in Paris but that since then it has kind of gone down hill a bit, so I'm wondering really why he suggested going. But we get there and he knows the doorwoman and we get in without paying, which as far as I'm concerned always makes the evening go a bit smoother. And there seems to be a cool crowd in residency.
Now silly-billies Parisians are not. They can be absurd and post-modern. They can even actually be clinically mad. But as I had previously understood it, they will rarely opt to conga around a village hall with a pair of flashing devil horns on their heads. Passing balloons between chests simply for the chance of rubbing boobies against someone is not a lifestyle choice in Paris. This Anglo / Franco anthropological disparity occurs to me at the very moment that Jake leans in and, with a bit of Mojito mint stuck between his teeth, drunkenly slurs "Are you up for a bit of a boogie?" Aside from the fact that he just used the word "boogie" as a descriptor for putting the moves down, I look at him uneasily and reply "I am. But Jake…we're not among our own."
Ha! I should have instantly banished that thought, for it was very quickly made clear to me that Paris is full of the demographic which includes those of us (raises hand) who just want to flail about like our elbows are on fire.
So with the exception of Sandrine, because she's a girl, after about half an hour of arriving and getting even more drunk us four boys all have our tops off. Big...drunk...gayers! Yay! Even though he was drunk Jake was really, really sweet and kept putting his arms around me when we were dancing. And because he's gorgeous and I'm incredibly shallow, inside I was all like "He's with me, everyone! Go me!" The DJ even plays the tune I am currently obsessed with. It's an old French tune called "Blue" by La Tour, that has recently started being played at clubs again. I've put it on some of the CD's I've been burning recently for my friends (with my beloved iBook) - have another listen. It's awesome!
Jake and I left the club at around 4.30am and headed back to the hotel, where the two of us order a snack and un bouteille de vin blanc. Then we sit on the bed and he gets some stuff out that he's obviously been mulling over. He tells me that he knows that he has been intense despite the fact that I have wanted to take things slow. He explains that since he broke up with his last boyfriend he has dated numerous guys, but they were either idiots or they were freaked out by him. Then he goes on to say that out of all of those guys I am the most gentle, kind, natural, unpretentious (poor deluded Jake!) person that he has met in quite some time and that was why he was so keen to spend quality time with me. I think I nearly cried! It means something, even in my drunken state, that he's trying to make me comfortable with the situation. Although I could go over the same stuff again I don't. It's been said. I'm not going to keep hammering the point home.
Despite the fact that we have only had a few hours sleep and we are really quite hungover we made ourselves get up at a not too unreasonable hour, freshened up and went out to get a hearty breakfast. "So what shall we do today?" asks Jake.
I actually really want to go to Pigalle and check out the gay sex shops but that doesn't seem like a very romantic thing to do. So instead I suggest that we go to the Musee Rodin in the Varenne. After all, a museum visit raises no "What's your game?" eyebrows. So off we trek. I've been to the Musee Rodin before and love it there, but Jake hadn't and didn't know much about Rodin either. So I take him inside first and prime him with an explanation of "The Kiss" and that despite the fact that it is Rodin's most famous piece, it was actually his least favorite.
After touring the house we step out into the Orangerie garden, amongst the rose bushes and sculptures and the two of us marvel at what can be achieved with a decent set of chisels. The scattered benches offer various clinch points around the huge garden and after a while artistic reflection on the essential beauty of the naked body gives way to romantic rumination, aided by the spirit of classical lovers and utter peace. Well, that and the burgeoning animal lust given off by the rippling male torsos!
After a while all the staring into each others eyes, smiling, kissing, talking in hushed voices and holding hands begins to really push the button for me. So I make a suggestion:
"Jake? Can we get naked in the bushes? Can we lacquer each other up with bronze shoe polish? Can we let life imitate art for a change?
But he just looks at me and smiles. I take that as a no. Damnit!
After the Musee Rodin Jake says that he wants to go up to the Sacre-Coeur cause I had been raving about it. So we head on up again. And I walk up all those steps, AGAIN! He agrees that the view is pretty damn spectacular. After that we have a walk around Montmartre. It is without doubt the most unabashedly romantic district of Paris. I was reminded of Before Sunset when Julie Delpy and Ethan Hawke find the lurve! So we just mooch about peering into alleys, explore little streets and descend quiet stairways. We have some late lunch at yet another cute little French café.
Later on we went for a spot of retail therapy and I made Jake buy this FINE chocolate brown cashmere sweater from Agnes b, which I am fully intending to borrow at some point. After that it was back to the hotel for a cup of tea and to pick up our bags in time to get the Eurostar back to London. Because I was still quite hung over I slept most of the way back, so by the time we got into Waterloo I was feeling pretty human again.
The plan had been that I would go home when we got back to London, but after the romance of Paris I couldn't face the idea of my little room, so I went back to Jake's and we made supper and curled up in front of the TV.
When I got to work this morning I got the cutest text from him but I'm not going tell you what it said cause it's sure too make you nauseous. But still...aw!
Oh guess what! Le fags! From the moment I got on the train to Paris, to the moment I got back into London, I did not smoke ONE SINGLE CIGARETTE THE ENTIRE WEEKEND! Do you know what an achievement that is, not least because I was in Paris, where it is constitutionally required that you smoke! Now I just have to try and keep it up for the next, oh, sixty or seventy years.
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