It’s our last night in Paris, and we have one aim- to not sleep, to party hard and hopefully miss our flight home…
So after several unsuccessful attempts to talk our way into exclusive underground nightclubs in Paris (such as the notorious Le Baron), our friendly taxi driver recommended to us the same club which our trusty guide book described as the most exclusive club in the city, reserved only for the “rich and beautiful”. Our reckless spontaneity, however, was soon dampened when we pulled up outside the club and realised the guide book wasn’t lying- Ferrari’s and BMV’s lined the Champs Elysee. Suddenly it seemed as though our best Topshop outfits weren’t quite going to cut it. The only thing more suprising than our decision to actually get out of the taxi, was the fact that as soon as we approached, the bouncer immediately lifted the heavy velvet rope without a word spoken! Regulars, obviously… And just as we were about to burst into celebratory cheers, a woman approached asking if we would like to be seated VIP. Being escorted through the crowds and shown a seat in the airy VIP area (which smelled strangely of citrus) was surreal- what do we do now? Scared to put a foot wrong, we decided to order a drink to try and distract from the fact that we couldn’t take our eyes off the impeccably dressed surrounding us, the gold plated Paco Rabanne “One Million” perfume bottles embedded into the walls, the DJ’s spray-painted Louis Vuitton Apple Mac, and the cinema sized screens showing videos of the club’s most recent visitors. Kaiser Karl was there the week before: I had to take a quick gulp of my €25 vodka and orange juice (!) to stop my jaw from hitting the floor.
The interior of the club when the man himself popped in for a visit
Soon enough, our friendly VIP neighbours invited us to drink with them, however it was evident that they came from another world altogether- add two zeros to the price of my drink and that was their bill by the end of the night. At one point my handbag was sitting beside one of theirs on the sofa- mine a £2.99 bargain in Oxfam which I regularly see sported by 70 year old women, nestled beside a huge, patent, gold Louis Vuitton creation which probably cost upwards of 10 grand. The perfect photo opportunity, but since the only camera floating about was that of the hired professional photographer; I thought it best not to whip out our digital!
One of the only pictures we did manage to take- in the toilets!
“So how come you’re in Paris?”
“Oh just the usual- sightseeing, Disneyland, girls weekend away. What about you?”
“Oh I’m here for a casting for Paris Fashion week.”
This is how we found out that the three tall, skinny indie boys we were dancing with, just happened to be male models. Keno, Dustin and Dejan- German, Canadian and Serbian respectively.
with "almost as much ink as the New York Times" Keno has "already been shot for the Versace lookbook, in an editorial with Donatella herself" and "into skateboarding, beer and cigarettes", according to models.com. Image: http://www.models.com
So we fulfilled our aim of seeing the sun rise- although hearing tales of Versace and Gautier, and being taught the walk by genuine veterans of the runway in the grounds of the Louvre at 6am wasn’t exactly part of the plan. Keno even gave me his oversized black cord Levi shirt he’d picked up in a Parisian vintage store to keep warm in the cool breeze of the morning. And I almost got away with keeping it as we hopped in a taxi to go home and leave behind the world of the “rich and beautiful”.
Almost.
Meeting At The Number 10 