Empty Streets in the Paris Light
Woke up when the plane landed. Strange- I never sleep on flights, I must be tired.
Made my way to the hotel. Driver says "Hi Mr.Z, we have a lot planned for you"- "We? As in the drivers of LVMH, the French, or the LVMH group?" I said, not missing a beat-despite my jetlag. He stays quiet. "So is this a Maybach?" I say, extending an olive branch for my arrogance earlier. "Yes, want to see what it can do?"-- Now I've got him on my side. In no time flat, my body is pressed against the finely stitched supple leather seats as he floors the pedals "This is my baby"- He coos, "Precious", I respond.
20 minutes later, I arrive at my hotel, and somehow managed to convince my driver to let me use the car at night-- despite my lack of a real drivers license. My room is a suite, they tell me all the features and services, as I tone them out and just lie on the bed. "Egyptian sheets... you'll are a fancy bunch"- I say, "Yes that is Hermes"-says the man. I can tell we're going to be great friends.
One power nap later, I get a call from reception informing me that my trainer has arrived. Shit. Are you kidding me? 15 minutes later, he's got me in all sorts of positions that would make my Christian friends blush. "Is this necessary?" I ask, as I'm doing jump ropes with 15 pound ankle weights on each leg. "Yes, you will not be tired for the rest of your day." - I believe him in theory, but I think he severely underestimates my laziness.
An hour later, I shower, get dressed and attend my meeting. Today, I'm doing a presentation on Corporate projections and how to adapt to the weak dollar. I sit through meals served in duck fat, and butter-- and one meal that my friend calls a "jewish heart attack" before it is my turn to take the stage.
After the presentation, I field questions and mingle. There is an editor from Harpers Bazaar who wants an interview, however her questions are too personal so she is denied. Voicemail from Karl's assistant (buttboy) tells me that he wants to see me tonight. Crap, did I pack anything Chanel? I raid the LVMH emergency closet and pull together something to wear to meet him. After all-- I know what he likes: skinny as fuck, in black. Think Olsen twins with less hair. He talks about iPods, I let him know it is not 2003 anymore and that he should ebay that shit before they become embellished bricks. His buttboy gives me the stink eye. "Tell him to stop. Just cause he has to kiss your ass to take your dick, doesn't mean I have to censor myself." Buttboy leaves. Mission accomplished.
Karl invites me to a Chanel party, but I raincheck since I have another party to head to. I excuse myself and leave. I arrive at the party, late but manage to meet all the right people I was hoping to speak with about business. We set up meetings and I go home. I realize it is 2am and I have been up for far too long yet I'm barely tired. Maybe I should start trusting my personal trainer.
Made my way to the hotel. Driver says "Hi Mr.Z, we have a lot planned for you"- "We? As in the drivers of LVMH, the French, or the LVMH group?" I said, not missing a beat-despite my jetlag. He stays quiet. "So is this a Maybach?" I say, extending an olive branch for my arrogance earlier. "Yes, want to see what it can do?"-- Now I've got him on my side. In no time flat, my body is pressed against the finely stitched supple leather seats as he floors the pedals "This is my baby"- He coos, "Precious", I respond.
20 minutes later, I arrive at my hotel, and somehow managed to convince my driver to let me use the car at night-- despite my lack of a real drivers license. My room is a suite, they tell me all the features and services, as I tone them out and just lie on the bed. "Egyptian sheets... you'll are a fancy bunch"- I say, "Yes that is Hermes"-says the man. I can tell we're going to be great friends.
One power nap later, I get a call from reception informing me that my trainer has arrived. Shit. Are you kidding me? 15 minutes later, he's got me in all sorts of positions that would make my Christian friends blush. "Is this necessary?" I ask, as I'm doing jump ropes with 15 pound ankle weights on each leg. "Yes, you will not be tired for the rest of your day." - I believe him in theory, but I think he severely underestimates my laziness.
An hour later, I shower, get dressed and attend my meeting. Today, I'm doing a presentation on Corporate projections and how to adapt to the weak dollar. I sit through meals served in duck fat, and butter-- and one meal that my friend calls a "jewish heart attack" before it is my turn to take the stage.
After the presentation, I field questions and mingle. There is an editor from Harpers Bazaar who wants an interview, however her questions are too personal so she is denied. Voicemail from Karl's assistant (buttboy) tells me that he wants to see me tonight. Crap, did I pack anything Chanel? I raid the LVMH emergency closet and pull together something to wear to meet him. After all-- I know what he likes: skinny as fuck, in black. Think Olsen twins with less hair. He talks about iPods, I let him know it is not 2003 anymore and that he should ebay that shit before they become embellished bricks. His buttboy gives me the stink eye. "Tell him to stop. Just cause he has to kiss your ass to take your dick, doesn't mean I have to censor myself." Buttboy leaves. Mission accomplished.
Karl invites me to a Chanel party, but I raincheck since I have another party to head to. I excuse myself and leave. I arrive at the party, late but manage to meet all the right people I was hoping to speak with about business. We set up meetings and I go home. I realize it is 2am and I have been up for far too long yet I'm barely tired. Maybe I should start trusting my personal trainer.