High life
A town for all seasons
Taki
Paris that last shot of whisky or vodka. This time was no exception. I cannot tell you my embarrassment, but, thank God, there were only hacks present, and Greek ones to boot.
Now some of you loyal readers may have suspected that I have little respect for the peeping Toms and rumour-mongers that polite society refers to as the Fourth Estate. Indeed, I have always believed that as members of the lower orders — espe- cially in Britain — journalists should not be allowed to ask questions or query facts. As far as I'm concerned, these obnoxious crea- tures were born to correctly take down one's pronouncements, hand them in to the copy man, and then head for the pub. Or, as the case may be, the taverns. Fortunate- ly, last week the press conference was held in the capital's best hotel, the Caravel, once owned by the poor little Greek boy, now expertly run by the Divanis family. The hacks were happy to hang around because of the goodies — catering by Kiku, the best Japanese restaurant this side of Tokyo (proprietor Leonidas Goulandris) — and the Niagara-like flowing booze offered free by the owners.
Ergo the motley crew and I hung out in the swimming-pool for at least four hours, and, having further fortified myself against the dry heat, I finally did myself proud. Yes, I was very happy some Greeks blew up a McDonald's in protest at the draft dodger's future visit. Yes, Clinton should be arrested for crimes against humanity during the Belgrade bombing. Yes, my new book is a classic on a par with The Odyssey ... and so on. I'm sure you get the picture.
That evening I gave a large party for my friends, whose number, incidentally, had grown exponentially as the longest of days dragged on. Twenty-four more hours of television appearances and interviews fol- lowed and then, suddenly sober and embar- rassed, I flew to Paris and instant happiness. I know it's a cliché, but I love only one city, Paris. Athens and London are for copulating, the Bagel for family life, but Paris is for the senses. A feature of Paris that never ceases to astonish me is its stubborn resistance to change. The snooty salons, the literary receptions, the art gal- leries and fashion houses, the corner tabacs and bistros are always brilliant and des- tined to remain so. Unlike Britain, France has never lost her love of true culture. And she has not stopped hurling broadsides at the despised American one.
As always, I walked around in a dream- like state, thinking of the past good times I've had there, taking in the beauty of the place: the lovely squares such as Place des Vosges, designed in the 17th century; Le Palais Royal, Place de Furstenberg, where Delacroix had his • atelier, the numerous hotels particuliers and palaces of the 17th
and 18th centuries in the 7th arrondisse- ment, all impeccably kept up by a state that names its streets mainly after war heroes, poets, artists, writers and politicians, and in
that order.
The reason for my visit was the marriage of Thomas Pompidou, grandson of Presi- dent Pompidou, to Marean Romualdez, niece of Imelda Marcos. There was a glit- tering dinner in Faubourg Saint-Honore, followed by the marriage in Ile Saint-Louis and a marvellous ball that evening in L'Orangerie du Park de Bagatelle. Presi- dent Chirac and his wife, Madame Claude Pompidou, Baron Guy de Rothschild, Ezra and Cecile Zilkha, Bernard Arnaud, were among the 150 guests. (Small and exclusive is beautiful.) There was hardly any security, unlike the tortures the Americans put us through protecting the first scumbag. Out- side Café Flore the next day I ran into our sainted and benevolent proprietor and his wife. The three of us agreed there is noth- ing like Paris in the springtime, summer, winter and fall.
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