The French Connection

Possums! The Urban Cowgirl is finally back in the saddle - pun intended - with all sorts of travel tales to share. My original intent was to blog intermittently throughout my trip however the bloody French/Spanish keyboards made this a touch painful. So, in keeping it real, I opted for my trusty journal instead.

First stop - Paris. Having been there before I had already checked off all things touristy, so this time around I decided I would soak in the city, people watch and eat my face off...naturally. I arrived in the morning full of piss and vinegar so I ditched my bags and enthusiastically headed to...the cemetery. Yes, that is correct possums. A friend of mine reminded me that Jim Morrison was buried in a Parisian cemetery and asked me to take a few snaps of his grave...so I hopped on the Metro and took my morbid ass over to the Pere Lachaise Cemetery to check it out. Buried amongst the likes of Oscar Wilde and a plethora of Napoleon's cronies, most visitors seemed only interested in swarming the grave site of Mr. Morrison. I had hoped to stumble upon some hippies pouring a bottle of whiskey over the rock legend’s grave, but no such luck.

It just so happens that Fashion Week kicked off the day before I arrived. Coincidence? One would think not, however it was just my luck and lucky I was indeed. I scoped out show locales online and discovered the Gaspard Yurkievich show was taking place at the Louvre. Not too shabby of a venue I must say. I ventured to the famed museum to see if I could stumble upon any celebrities in a stalker-like fashion. Turns out they keep the riff raff (and by that I mean a mix of fashion victims, Paris’s elite and a handful of media) and the celebs in separate rooms before going in for the show. What I didn’t know was how easy it would be to sneak in there! With no ticket and a sub-par ensemble (i decided to wear all black, you know, the mod bitch look), I loitered around the line up to get in. Next thing I know some gal with a head set on is handing me a bag of goodies and ushering me inside. Ofcourse, sans ticket, I ended up standing in the back but no one even questioned it?! ‘C’est bonne’ i think to myself. I did not see any celebs, which let’s face it was the real reason I was there, but Yurkievich did put on a good show.

The only problem with visiting Paris during Fashion Week is the influx of perfect people...and I do mean perfect. I’ll meet your Mary Magdalen Paris and raise you two bulimic models. My day concluded with dinner on Il Saint Louis before heading home to prep for my flight to Marrakech the next morning. I did, however, have a slight run-in with a Parisian man who decided to chat my ear off while heading home on the train. As I reached my stop, he began to double-cheek kiss me incessantly, reminiscent of SNL’s Bellissimo bit where Carvey, Sandler and Schneider are Italian waiters licking Kirstie Alley's face. Nice.

Au revoir for now possums.

Photo credits - Urban Cowgirl