God I’m glad I came here. It crushed nearly every stereotype (especially the negative ones) I had about this place. Parisians, simply put, are charming. There persistent greeting culture reminds me of America. There food ranges from bland to masterful. Their style isn’t any better or worse than any other country. Their women are not particularly beautiful nor ugly. But their city. It. Is. Art.
From the first greeting from the train conductor, the Parisians have been extra kind. Now, if you don’t speak French in a restaurant (in my experience) instead of taking a snooty tone, the waiter might smile at you with the quiet implication that he or she finds it cute that you can only speak one language. Then they will help you along the stretches of the menu. Even the children will playfully jump out of your way if you need to get past in the supermarket.
The weather in September is remarkably similar to Southern California in the Winter (cold in the morning and sometimes boiling by noon). The touristy spots are still crowded (though I simply can’t imagine how bad it is in August). The Luve (spelled wrong- who cares?…. that was rhetorical) is not a museum at all rather a palace the size of a small city. I went to several museums and to tell you the truth, they are all beginning to look the same. I think I am done with them unless they are on a particular subject that I find interesting before hand. Something needs to have been accomplished in this museum. I don’t want to look at pretty things anymore.
Paris is a city that sleeps in way past 9am. In fact, most of the shops are still closed (during the week) at 10 am. But when should you really be outside in Paris? At 7pm this place begins to really pop. Everyone is outside walking around, chatting with each other, and beginning the celebration of eating. The streets wreak of roasted chicken. I find myself intoxicated with the sweet smell of a honey reduction glaze.
For the whole sha-bang, you are looking at a minimum of 45 Euros ($60+). But I wasn’t alone was I? (My parents are reading this post right now and wondering why I haven’t mentioned my Step Bother Patrick yet.) Well parents, I simply wanted to speak about Paris a bit before I let our wonderful family steal the show 
Had I not spoken about Paris first, I would not have interest in mentioning it after speaking of Patrick’s life style. To catch the rest of my 85 up, my stepbrother Patrick is a fashion photographer who has been living in Paris for about 15 years now. I have been staying with him for the past 5 days or so and have gained great incite into the life of a fashion photographer in Paris.
(while I am typing this, I am on a high speed train to Frankfurt at the moment and it is absolutely flying. This time though, I am not paying 26 Euros and I have plenty of leg room as well as an electrical socket. I love the Germans!)
Patrick picked me up at the train station with one of his three motorcycles. We zipped along the streets of Paris in the highest style possible. Snaking our way through traffic and, in true Parisian fashion, lent ourselves to on coming traffic at times. We also did a little side walk driving, but I promise that all of these maneuvers were done with so much experience and care, that my heart rate never changed
Patrick is quite simply, a gentleman in ever sense of the word. He is as attentive as he is considerate. Always a thoughtful host. Always selfless and generous. But more than anything, Patrick is sincere. And that goes a long way in his industry. Ironically iconic when you think about the traits that he has emulated from his father, a lawyer in an industry that equally lacks high marks for sincerity.
I spent the last 5 days following Patrick around and observing the people who he interacts with and who he has chosen to surround himself with. At the end of day 5, he looked back at me (when we were on his motorcycle) and said “You pretty much saw my whole life. The apartment, My work, the bottle shop (his local watering hole), and the bike shop (where he hangs out with his biker buddies).
Patrick is 38. He currently shoots for Marie Clair Magazine. He lives a relatively modest life, yet not deprived in the least. He enjoys the simple pleasures that a Parisian does (fine food, conversation, and wine.) Neat and organized, he tends to have a personal system for most everything. He collects helmets that he buys online. Finds time to keep in constant contact with everyone via Balckberry, and knows both name and personal story of everyone in his everyday life from the Taylor to the superintendent. He lives in the north east side of Paris where all of his daily essentials are within walking distance.
I know what you are all wondering. What about the wild parties? Abuse of his power as a photographer with the models? No….. Never
Moving right along….
Patrick’s friends range from shy to pre-Madonna, but almost all of them are involved with either something artistic or motorcycles. (Wow, I can’t believe I am at peace with summing his friends up in one sentence. Perhaps one or two more.) …. Later
I got the pleasure of seeing every step of his job with the exception of the actual shoot. I got to tag along for casting call, location research, and all the shmoozing and coordinating that comes between. Perhaps the most interesting to talk about will be the casting call.
We went to the Marie Claire office which is situated just outside of the Paris city limits. No one cared that I was there to tag along, in fact, they were quite welcoming. After introductions, models began to pour into the room, one at a time.
The first thing I noticed was how emaciated they were. Sometimes in a bold stance and sometimes with posture broken, each one of them said hello and hand Patrick their portfolio. At this point, Patrick begins to separate himself from the crowd. He doesn’t just flip through the pictures; he makes some small talk. He wants to find out if the girl has enough social skills to work with him. In addition, he knows that a lot of these models are as young as 16 and are terrified to be away from home. “You can crush a girl so easily. For many of them, this is their first time away from home. For many of them this is their only chance to make any money for their family.” Many of them are from poor eastern European countries.
Some though are bold, even cocky. Some are dressed to the nines and some look like a train wreck. All of them have upper legs that are almost the same width as their calves (small) which is frightening in person. Most of them don’t wear a bra. Some of them have this combo with a loosely fitting tank top, providing for a bunch of flashing.
The longer the interview goes (as always) the better the chance the girl has for getting the part. Shockingly, in between each of the girls in the room, the stylist and Patrick bounce their opinions off of me and even take heed of my input. That was a real rush. I was opened up to a new world or standards. Too sexy and too commercial, were some of the criticisms that I heard that I never thought could exist.
Later I chatted with the stylist about what she was looking for. She said “There is a fine line between too shy and too pushy. Too made up and looking like a slob. We want to see that there is room for improvement. We as artists don’t want to see a canvas that has already been painted on.”
What a rough interview. They are encouraged not to sell themselves? When I interview I set my personality to “dominate” which is pretty easy to balance. But this is kind of like playing hard to get. One thing that is the same with all interviews (including casting calls) is that a genuine smile painted on someones face, when you first walk in the room, will get you both noticed and remembered.
Lets chat about food a bit more. When Patrick was doing a little less fun work, I was doing the touristy things. I stroll down the street, baguette (French roll) in hand. This will be my lunch, for the bread is just that good. I think of this as markedly non Parisian. To eat so simply. To not celebrate every ingredient in a complicated dish, over a glass of red wine and an espresso shot. But alas, I find other locals who have the same routine.
Later that night, Patrick took me out to a fine traditional French restaurant, owned and run by twin brothers. One ran the bar and the other was the cook. The food was exquisite. Duck liver served warm with a red wine reduction. Tender steak with a strong blue cheese-like sauce. A huge plate of cheeses and raspberry cream & butterscotch cream for dessert. I tried to pay my own way, but Patrick would not dare let me. My stomach was painfully full at the end of the night. There were a few friends that joined us for dinner. Some were bubbly and some were painted with fake French accents as well as a spoiled sense of entitlement. Rude at the dinner table, they all tended to their blackberries as a first choice over listening to the question they just fired off to the table.
These were the kinds of people who will eat your soul. These people belonged in LA. They asked questions to hear their own voice and then dove back into your ignored response to add some sort of blunt “Piece of advice” that was really just a rude outcry of their ego.
But those are the minority of Patrick’s friends, he does have sweet and sincere ones too.
I leave Paris with a sense that the Parisians are a lot less exotic that I had previously envisioned. This is a good thing. Though the city as a whole was a little boring as far as attractions are concerned, I thoroughly enjoyed my stay.