The Vespa in the Cubicle (or, the story that almost caused the king to finally get bored and kill Scherezade)
I should be working, but there's a Vespa in my cubicle.
No, this isn't an overly-direct translation of a line from a Kung Fu movie. There's actually a Vespa, complete with suede seats, here in the office. Looking around, I can also see two Marc Jacobs purses; a picnic basket full of $5,000 worth of crap from Fauchon; several baskets of expensive European cosmetics; four magnums of Veuve Clicqot Grande Dame, two crates of wine (worth more than all the belongings I own put together), and a 5-foot-tall hookah. No joke.
Our offices have become a makeshift storage facility for the auction items from our annual Gala, which was held on Friday (I do fundraising for a French school which will go unnamed, but just for the record, cher Monsieur le proviseur, je ne ferais jamais du blogging au bureau, puisqu'il est interdit ...). The Gala raises a million dollars for the school, so it's a pretty swanky affair. The women, most of whom are French, wear elaborate couture dresses that are so beautiful you just want to cry. Americans aren't as big on dressing up and wearing ball gowns, which I consider unfortunate. I think that instead of the ubiquitous Casual Friday, we should have Formal Fridays, where we all come to the office wearing ball gowns. Even the dudes. It would make work more interesting.
The theme of the Gala was A Thousand and One Nights (hence the hookah, which is a middle easter water bong, not the thing you stand under with the rabbi to get married, unless you live in Canada, where, G-d love 'em, maybe you can marry your water bong). Several of the live auction items went for $20,000-$30,000+, including one of Lance Armstrong's racing bikes from the Tour de France. All the auction lots had titles related to Arabian Nights, like, "Scheherazade and the Italian Nights" (a trip to Italy) or "Voyage to the Mystic Mountains" (some Swiss ski extravaganza). It's kind of amazing that there are people - many people, in this city - who can blow $30,000 without a second thought on things they don't even remotely need.
Sigh. I want to fly first class to Italy and stay in a villa while wearing "new green chryophase and diamond earrings." I'm not sure what chryophase is, but I'm pretty sure it would make my life 100% complete.
Did Keats ever write an Ode on a Basket of La Prairie anti-cellulite cream? If not, he should have. If I weren't so cursedly ethical, I could just ... Wait. This is quickly going to devolve into another love letter to luxury goods and services, so I should probably quit while I'm ahead.
Once again, I find myself in daily, close proximity to some of the wealthiest people in the world, while I hold my breath as I charge $5 worth of groceries because I've already spent the rest of my money for the week on unneccessary crap. Case in point: a little doctor's bag full of "cosmoceuticals" (Just like a real doctor of cosmotology!). I'm already turning into Blanche Dubois, but that's a story for another day, darlin'.
****
"The only interesting people are the very rich, and the very poor," he said, raising a glass to the man who was paying the bar tab. We were young, and in Paris, and in lust, and slightly drunk, and way too impressed with our thoroughly unoriginal observation. We were neither very poor nor very rich, but bourgeois (French for "bourgeois") kids from comfortable, wide-lawned suburbs who had overly romanticized both wealth and poverty. Not real poverty, of course, in the way that most of us aren't actually starving when we say we're "starving" because we haven't eaten since breakfast. We're talking a temporary (if pretty much total) lack of money. The sort of thing that makes you appreciate luxury in the way that being slightly hungry gives one a fuller appreciation of food.
It felt Hemingway-esque, in the way that sitting in a Burger King in Paris can when you're 22 years old and/or slightly drunk. It was after a vernissage at the art gallery where I worked, which was frequented by nouveau riche Russian mafia types (it was a Russian gallery). The gallery openings were very elaborate, with champagne and caviar and such. Meanwhile, I lived in a tiny chambre de bonne (a fancy word for a converted maid's quarters, from the days before maids were allowed to bathe) which had no shower or bathtub, but did have a bidet.
The next two years would be all about being broke, but living among ridculously wealthy people. Many of them were Russians, and many had been rich beyond the dreams of avarice but, being new to capitalism, had spent all their money and come full circle back to being poor again (think: MC Hammerilivich). It's this bizarre pattern I keep repeating and repeating, like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day, only my debts never seem to be cleared away when I wake up to start the cycle over again & again & again ...
No, this isn't an overly-direct translation of a line from a Kung Fu movie. There's actually a Vespa, complete with suede seats, here in the office. Looking around, I can also see two Marc Jacobs purses; a picnic basket full of $5,000 worth of crap from Fauchon; several baskets of expensive European cosmetics; four magnums of Veuve Clicqot Grande Dame, two crates of wine (worth more than all the belongings I own put together), and a 5-foot-tall hookah. No joke.
Our offices have become a makeshift storage facility for the auction items from our annual Gala, which was held on Friday (I do fundraising for a French school which will go unnamed, but just for the record, cher Monsieur le proviseur, je ne ferais jamais du blogging au bureau, puisqu'il est interdit ...). The Gala raises a million dollars for the school, so it's a pretty swanky affair. The women, most of whom are French, wear elaborate couture dresses that are so beautiful you just want to cry. Americans aren't as big on dressing up and wearing ball gowns, which I consider unfortunate. I think that instead of the ubiquitous Casual Friday, we should have Formal Fridays, where we all come to the office wearing ball gowns. Even the dudes. It would make work more interesting.
The theme of the Gala was A Thousand and One Nights (hence the hookah, which is a middle easter water bong, not the thing you stand under with the rabbi to get married, unless you live in Canada, where, G-d love 'em, maybe you can marry your water bong). Several of the live auction items went for $20,000-$30,000+, including one of Lance Armstrong's racing bikes from the Tour de France. All the auction lots had titles related to Arabian Nights, like, "Scheherazade and the Italian Nights" (a trip to Italy) or "Voyage to the Mystic Mountains" (some Swiss ski extravaganza). It's kind of amazing that there are people - many people, in this city - who can blow $30,000 without a second thought on things they don't even remotely need.
Sigh. I want to fly first class to Italy and stay in a villa while wearing "new green chryophase and diamond earrings." I'm not sure what chryophase is, but I'm pretty sure it would make my life 100% complete.
Did Keats ever write an Ode on a Basket of La Prairie anti-cellulite cream? If not, he should have. If I weren't so cursedly ethical, I could just ... Wait. This is quickly going to devolve into another love letter to luxury goods and services, so I should probably quit while I'm ahead.
Once again, I find myself in daily, close proximity to some of the wealthiest people in the world, while I hold my breath as I charge $5 worth of groceries because I've already spent the rest of my money for the week on unneccessary crap. Case in point: a little doctor's bag full of "cosmoceuticals" (Just like a real doctor of cosmotology!). I'm already turning into Blanche Dubois, but that's a story for another day, darlin'.
****
"The only interesting people are the very rich, and the very poor," he said, raising a glass to the man who was paying the bar tab. We were young, and in Paris, and in lust, and slightly drunk, and way too impressed with our thoroughly unoriginal observation. We were neither very poor nor very rich, but bourgeois (French for "bourgeois") kids from comfortable, wide-lawned suburbs who had overly romanticized both wealth and poverty. Not real poverty, of course, in the way that most of us aren't actually starving when we say we're "starving" because we haven't eaten since breakfast. We're talking a temporary (if pretty much total) lack of money. The sort of thing that makes you appreciate luxury in the way that being slightly hungry gives one a fuller appreciation of food.
It felt Hemingway-esque, in the way that sitting in a Burger King in Paris can when you're 22 years old and/or slightly drunk. It was after a vernissage at the art gallery where I worked, which was frequented by nouveau riche Russian mafia types (it was a Russian gallery). The gallery openings were very elaborate, with champagne and caviar and such. Meanwhile, I lived in a tiny chambre de bonne (a fancy word for a converted maid's quarters, from the days before maids were allowed to bathe) which had no shower or bathtub, but did have a bidet.
The next two years would be all about being broke, but living among ridculously wealthy people. Many of them were Russians, and many had been rich beyond the dreams of avarice but, being new to capitalism, had spent all their money and come full circle back to being poor again (think: MC Hammerilivich). It's this bizarre pattern I keep repeating and repeating, like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day, only my debts never seem to be cleared away when I wake up to start the cycle over again & again & again ...
posted by Marguerite at 3:09 PM
2 Comments:
Marguerite - thanks for dropping by my blog. The USA was built on immigration and yet often it seems quite insular and inward looking. Yes there has indeed been a big news story in the rest of the world - all about cartoons allegedly casting aspersions upon the Islamic faith. Several people have died and embassies have been torched. Perhaps it all foreshadows the next major conflict between the Christian West and the Muslim East. It's a big worry..... By the way, nice blog you got there...!
I love when you write about rich people and extravagant luxury items that I will never afford. You should write a book. I promise to buy it.
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