I happened to be in Paris during their fashion week. I highly recommend it, but not for the reasons you might think. We spent the afternoon sitting outside the Café Ruc. As our bottles emptied, our laughter got louder and our pointing became less discrete. There was of course a share of truly beautiful and well-dressed individuals, but they were a rarity. More often it looked like the circus was in town and the clowns had gotten hold of fake tan and Botox. The flow of fashionista wannabes tended to totter up the Rue Saint Honoré. Out of the hope they were massing in one place like neon-colored ladybugs with eating disorders, we followed. Our hopes were fulfilled at a shop called Colette. S_ went inside. I stayed out.
A large black Mercedes docked at the curb side. The driver got out and opened the back door. A well-heeled gentleman stepped from the car and disappeared into the shop in a swish of camel hair.
A man in a bicycle courier's outfit put his nose against the glass and searched the interior of the car, examining the occupants. He did the same to the passengers in the backseat then back to the front. He did this over and over. They stared forward and pretended that he didn't exist. The lips of the woman in the front seat pursed like an asshole under her perfect quaff.
"Anybody interesting?" I asked the courier.
"No. Just piles of shit in a car," he responded and led his bike away.