SENSING ANOTHER bottleneck, my driver turned our Mercedes van south at the end of the Pont Royal and then suddenly north, so that we were briefly going the wrong way on a one-way road. “Nice move, Richard,” I said to the driver. He grunted and gunned the van through the intersection before anyone could hit us and then into the tunnel near the Louvre. The Olympics were snarling traffic everywhere in Paris. Many streets and bridges were already closed. And the semi-annual haute couture shows were also going on.
We popped out of the tunnel, and Richard, looking again at his phone, said, “We’ll be at the Opera at ten-oh-four.”
The Chanel show was at the Palais Garnier at 10 a.m. Ordinarily, there’s a grace period for the unpunctual, 20 or 30 minutes. Almost no show starts on time. But as we pulled up to the opera house, at 10:03, I noticed something strange about the situation. The entire area, including the street, was cordoned off by black barricades and patrolled by black-suited Chanel security. There was no else around, no guests.
Oh, shit, I thought. They’re all inside. I trotted over to the entrance, along with some other laggards, and climbed the steps to the second floor, where everyone was seated along a wide corridor overlooking the grand staircase. People were hardly talking. Usually before a show, you’re up, schmoozing. This felt like church. I took my seat. At 10:10, the show started.
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Bu hikaye New York magazine dergisinin July 1-14, 2024 sayısından alınmıştır.
Start your 7-day Magzter GOLD free trial to access thousands of curated premium stories, and 9,000+ magazines and newspapers.
Already a subscriber? Giriş Yap
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