YO! Happy Friday. I am thrilled to announce that I am sitting on my sofa in Manhattan, editing this bloated bitch. I just returned from two weeks in Europe, and it was A WHOLE LOT OF EXERTION. Like, I am looking forward to RELAXING back at home, and we all know that for me relaxing in New York is running 16 miles a week, deep-cleaning my apartment four times a month, and perfecting 400-page books to the point of involuntary eye-crossing.
My adventures started in Paris during a fucking historic heatwave.
Here’s my diary from the first few days, with—as I’ve been promising you all a return to beauty content—all of the makeup I used listed at the end. As ever, please note that diary entries are written the morning after the day I’m describing. Enjoy!
To start my trip, as usual, I brought all of my luggage to Neelam’s studio on public transport and had my eyebrows dyed. I always ask her to leave it on so it dyes my skin. I could not imagine traveling without doing this first. It’s like semi-permanent makeup for my trip. Emphasis—unfortunately—on the semi. I’ve been getting my eyebrows tinted since I was 19 and the dye used to last so much longer. Now, after I get them done, I only wash the lower part of my face with soap and water—to extend the effect. I use Neutrogena Hydro-Boost Wipesaround my forehead.
I used my stupid United credit card miles to fly to Paris from New York and I might not continue with that card. First of all, the values are not great. I paid 39,000 miles to fly to Paris in peak season—okay, I can accept that; with Delta in June to Europe it’s comparable. But the United 39,000 miles flight was with a layover in DC! At Dulles. The Delta would be direct for that price. And I booked this stupid DC layover flight months ago, and as it grew closer, I really regretted it. It’s ridiculous, as a New Yorker, to not just fly direct. The flight path is right there. There are THREE airports to choose from in New York, and two in Paris. But I always make things complicated. I think I hadn’t earned enough miles yet to book a direct flight and I was anxious about getting abroad for the Babyshambles concert. Anyway, it wasn’t a huge deal; I’m just saying.
What did I do on the plane? I always watch the same sort of thing: chef movies, docs, and shows. I saw JIRO DREAMS OF SUSHI for the first time—perfect, peaceful, subtitles.
Oh, and I didn’t get a vegan meal even though I called and confirmed I’d have one. That’s another reason I’m turning on United. The reason one wasn’t provided was because vegan meals “don’t exist” on that flight. Like…huh? Vegan meals are so easy. Curry and rice. Done. They kept bringing me things from business class, like little salads. I knicked an airplane blanket to use as a beach blanket.
I was cheerful to be at Charles de Gaulle airport, the great architectural hub, with all the fun tube escalators. For me, that cheer-upon-landing is way stronger than any red eye sleeplessness or jet lag energy. The heat wave was on but I didn’t think it was SO horrible. I took the train in from CDG to Gare du Nord. After waiting for a bus with an African dude for 20 minutes, I finally just hailed a cab. The taxi went up to Belleville. I got out at the Hotel des Pyrénnées and tried to speak French and the crabby innkeeper hated it, haha. I’d never stayed there before but it’s a cheap hotel ($77 a night) with air conditioning in a neighborhood I like; I know the Pyrénnées Metro stop well. Long before I knew there was a heat wave, I only ever book hotel rooms with air-con in Europe in the summer. Great views were just around the corner—down the iconic Belleville hill, with the Eiffel Tower so far away. Just like I like it.
I showered and by then it was like 3:30 PM. I hadn’t been to Pére Lachaise cemetery since high school and I keep meaning to go back, so I walked over there. Everyone is buried there: Proust, Oscar Wilde, Jim Morrison, Edith Piaf, Colette, Pissarro, Moliére, Victor Hugo. I really wanted to find two graves: Apollinaire, the glam French poet, and Marcel Marceau, the mime. When I couldn’t write How To Murder Your Life and used to sit around my TriBeCa loft drunk and smearing clown makeup on my face and crying all night, I would watch Marcel Marceau on YouTube. I found his grave, but that’s it.
Oh, and I bumped into Chopin’s without looking for it. The cemetery is fucking HUGE. I only had 50 minutes; it closed, so I had to leave. My phone kept shutting down from the heat.
Walked home and stopped at les supermarchés for all the essentials: lentils, carrots rappe, beets, couscous. Apples. Food of queens.
Comments
Nothing yet. Say the first thing.
Sign in to join the conversation.