Once upon a time there was a sweet little California girl who partied like a rock star and looked like a movie star (think: full length leather coat with fur collar and cuffs)….no, that’s not me……this would be Teresa Rodriguez Williamson, author and diva who jetted her way to Europe this month to do some whirlwind research for her fine new book “Flying Solo: 50 Top Destinations for Women”. We planned a crossing of party paths in Paris in order to conduct some important diva-esque business… oops, I mean PLEASURE.

Teresa’s savvy press credentials scored her some tricky digs at the unthinkably chic and luxurious Hotel de la Tremoille, smack in the heart of Paris’ “Golden Triangle” in the 8th arrondisement. While she was rubbing elbows with the likes of Givenchy and Chanel, I was wandering a bit lost up in the north part of the 8th trying to locate my postage-stamp size, not-so-tricky, 2-star hotel: the Madeleine Opera. In its defense, I enjoyed a peep show view inside neighboring Parisian apartments and was only a stiletto-stumble away from both the Printemps and Galeries Lafayette mega department stores.

Methought that Teresa might enjoy a surprise Thanksgiving dinner, considering she was busy scouring the land of baguettes and brie while her family enjoyed turkey and sweet potatoes back in the homeland. I rang up American ‘chef’ Jim Haynes, a double-decade resident of Paris, who has been cooking up weekly Sunday dinners at his flat for whoever would care to join. For 25 euros, we got all the turkey/stuffing/pumpkin pie and accoutrements, including cheap wine and beer, that we could inhale. While his flat is built for two, on Sunday evenings it is normally crammed with about 50-60 of his most intimate friends and soon-to-be-friends (like us!). Our boy James Montague joined us, having become a wild fan of American cuisine after my own Parisian Thanksgiving dinner last year during our raucous days of French school.

Monday found us waxing a little more française at the touristy-but-historical Café Les Deux Magots in St-Germain-des-Prés. We rubbed elbows with the ghosts of Hemingway and Sartre, while Teresa sampled the assortiment du fromage (assorted cheeses) and I savored the signature salad.

But wait, did I glimpse one of those faaaaaaaaabulous little signs… “Le Beaujolais Nouveau est arrivé!” ?!?! Oh yes, it was only days after the 3rd Thursday in November, and so the sweet new wine of the season was HERE. I recalled wistfully (blurrily…vaguely…) the outstanding night of Beaujolais Nouveau carousing just one year prior, when around 15 of us unwittingly packed into a popular gay bar in Paris, drinking bottles upon jugs of the sticky sweet wine, miraculously bursting into ever-more-fluent-French as the night went on, hoping we’d find our way home before class the next morning.

But, I digress. On this day, one year wiser (and with the memory of that hangover not so distant), I responsibly ordered just one little glass of the Beaujolais Nouveau and vowed to stay out of gay bars.

Between walking tours with Paris pro Antoinette Azzurro, Christmas shopping at Printemps, and glasses of champagne on the Ile-St-Louis, the afternoon was packed with pure pleasure. Our decadence continued late into the night as we lingered over Moroccan cuisine and practiced our best Arabic (excluding the swear words) at the posh El Mansour in the 8th. After a few glasses of French white, we shared our deepest scandals and toasted the glorious future…

By Tuesday, Teresa was ready for some hands-on book research… and what’s more hands on than a Parisian massage?! In the spirit of our Moroccan meal the night before, I spirited her away to the exclusive and exotic Aux Bains Montorgueil, the Moroccan-hammam-with-a-French-twist, hidden in the dark hallways of 55 rue Montorgueil. The spa itself is gloriously decorated with the finest Moroccan techniques – colorful, geometric tilework known as zellij, intricate plasterwork, wrought iron candleholders, heavy wooden doors with traditional iron knockers…all enhanced with fragrant incense, cinnamon orange slices, mint tea … so very ‘Arabian nights’! Our two hours of pleasure began with a leisurely stint in the eucalyptus-infused steam room, followed by a totally naked exfoliation experience at the accomplished hands of Wafa and Fatia, a hot rinse under a waterfall-like showerhead, and a freezing dunk in the gorgeous underground pool. The crowning glory was the argan oil massage, a totally sensuous rubdown using the highly-prized, fragrant oil of the Moroccan argan tree.

My escape to heaven ended abruptly with notice of the time. It was 1pm, and my flight back to Hamburg left Charles de Gaulle airport at 3pm. The masseuse had advised me to “let zee argan oil enreesh zee skeen az loong az c’est possible”, so I skipped the shower, slithered into my clothes, tied a scarf chicly around my wet hair, tossed some supermodel sunglasses onto my makeupless face, kissed Teresa adieu and headed for the train!

After a combo-pack of comical calamities, enhanced by the French handwritten love letter slipped to me by an amorous young Parisian dude, I managed to miss my flight by about 17 seconds. Tears at the gate did not help (I tried). I talked myself onto the next flight to Frankfurt, which routed me on to Hamburg and back into the arms of my fabulous man (who took one whiff and exclaimed “babe, take a shower!”).

Last I heard from our world-traveling diva Teresa, she was fighting off would-be suiters in Prague…an absinthe in one hand and a Chanel bag in the other!

We will meet again!

—————————–

My 2-star digs…:

…but ever so well-located!

Teresa travels like a proper diva:

Teresa, Jim, James & I enjoy the Thanksiving festivities:

Paris sparkles!

Living the luxe life at Aux Bains Montorgueil: