When you've got exactly Seventy Eight hours in Paris, every second counts. And though I was worried that taking a long weekend in the City of Lights might yield fewer artistic adventures, culinary delights, and fashion photo ops than my over-eager expectations had anticipated, the second I touched down, my fears were assuaged. Beautiful people everywhere! Perfect little sandwiches at the kiosk at the train station! Things were going to be just fine.
Less than three hours in after prying myself from the pressurized clutches of my rickety trans-Atlantic flight, having stuffed my weekend bag in a locker at Gare du Nord and changing into something a bit less I-just-got-off-a-red-eye-flight, I found myself at the Centre Pompidou--completely distracted from the art by this amazing young man:
Let's not talk about the perfectly Victorian vampire aesthetic with the elegantly coiffed hair, the long coat with tails and the fabulous trousers--can we go straight to the five-inch HEEL-LESS PLATFORMS on his feet?
The entire museum was a-buzz as he strut from room to room (because, really, you can't do anything BUT strut in those puppies) looking like he may have just stepped straight out of the Alexander McQueen exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum in New York and strut his way across the runway of the Atlantic to end up in Paris, with people whispering and pointing, iPhones out trying to surreptitiously sneak a photo. After nonchalantly chasing him from room to room trying to get a shot of my own--I mean I'm on a fashion reconnaissance mission here--I finally gave up and just walked straight up to him, fingers crossed. "I'm sorry," I said in French, "But you look amazing....would you mind if I took a photo?"
"Oh! Merci! wow, I don't really speak French but yes, Sure. Thanks!" He said, in English. Turns out that Nicolas, who is Dutch, is also one of the sweetest fashionistas I've ever met. We chatted for a bit while he tottered on his heels and he let me snap a couple quick shots on my phone before we traded cards and bisous, and I was free to bask in the lapis glow of Yves Klein and drink in the atmosphere of one of my favorite Rothkos while the rest of the museum-goers were craning their necks to get a better look at lovely Nicolas.
Oh Paris, I love you...
Less than three hours in after prying myself from the pressurized clutches of my rickety trans-Atlantic flight, having stuffed my weekend bag in a locker at Gare du Nord and changing into something a bit less I-just-got-off-a-red-eye-flight, I found myself at the Centre Pompidou--completely distracted from the art by this amazing young man:
Let's not talk about the perfectly Victorian vampire aesthetic with the elegantly coiffed hair, the long coat with tails and the fabulous trousers--can we go straight to the five-inch HEEL-LESS PLATFORMS on his feet?
The entire museum was a-buzz as he strut from room to room (because, really, you can't do anything BUT strut in those puppies) looking like he may have just stepped straight out of the Alexander McQueen exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum in New York and strut his way across the runway of the Atlantic to end up in Paris, with people whispering and pointing, iPhones out trying to surreptitiously sneak a photo. After nonchalantly chasing him from room to room trying to get a shot of my own--I mean I'm on a fashion reconnaissance mission here--I finally gave up and just walked straight up to him, fingers crossed. "I'm sorry," I said in French, "But you look amazing....would you mind if I took a photo?"
"Oh! Merci! wow, I don't really speak French but yes, Sure. Thanks!" He said, in English. Turns out that Nicolas, who is Dutch, is also one of the sweetest fashionistas I've ever met. We chatted for a bit while he tottered on his heels and he let me snap a couple quick shots on my phone before we traded cards and bisous, and I was free to bask in the lapis glow of Yves Klein and drink in the atmosphere of one of my favorite Rothkos while the rest of the museum-goers were craning their necks to get a better look at lovely Nicolas.
Oh Paris, I love you...
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