Where the eff is Dita Von Teese?

Back in August, I was informed by a Dita Von Teese newsletter that she was opening a private bar in Paris—sponsored by Cointreau—in Montmartre. Well, that sounded just absolutely fabulous and glamorous as I sat sweating away in my parent’s house in Austin, TX. But, like most things in this city, it’s one of those things that sounds amazing and then you get there and you’re alone and uncomfortable and everyone is cooler than you and speaking a language you just can’t grasp.

However, I had RSVP’d, received a special bracelet in the mail, and it was opening night—where drinks and food were free. So I forced myself to make the trek to Montmartre at night (a fifty minute journey, minimum.) Of course the place was “hidden” off the Lamarck Caulaincourt metro, and I could have easily gotten lost. But the Parisian gods worked with me, and I eventually found a red carpet surrounded by burly bodyguards and elegant PR girls huddled around the list.

I shuffled up, feeling about twenty pounds too fat and extremely under-dressed. (And I rarely EVER feel under-dressed in the States. In fact, I’m known as the “Dress Up” girl. I’m not tooting my horn, I’m just saying that it kills me that I am kind of schlumpy here, thanks to a small wardrobe/budget/transportation options.)
But, the girls did let me in and I walked up a cobblestone street to a three story house filled with violet light and beautiful people. And I do mean beautiful. There were girls wearing mink coats and black velvet pumps and exquisitive vintage beaded dresses. I was wearing a black dress and boots and feeling green with envy. But how the fuck do you ride the metro and walk around Montmartre in heels?

I helped myself to champagne and foie gras hor’doeuvres and found a chair in the corner. And people watched. For a long time. In the states, I’ve gone to events by myself and had a pretty decent time. Especially when there was free booze. I would eventually strike up a conversation with someone, meet some nice people, and drive myself home whenever. But this…this was different. Intimidating. Even if I had felt comfortable talking to one of the glamorous girls, I COULDN’T. It was so awfully frustrating. Who wants to speak to an under-dressed American who knows fifty words of French? And trust me, no one tried to talk to me—expect for a nice Irish man and his Filipino wife. They had flown in from Ireland just for the night.

Unfortunately, there was no sighting of Dita, but when I climbed the precarious tiny steps to the top floor, I spotted C-Lister Mischa Barton chillaxing and taking awkward pictures. That excitement lasted about five minutes. The servers were all dressed as flappers, and one of them made the mistake of setting a tray of cheese and quiche cubes next to me…I think that about sums up my night. I cut myself after three drinks (didn’t want to end up in a cop car again) and headed back home.
It’s funny, you can tell someone: “Oh yeah, I went to the private bar Dita Von Teese opened in Montmartre and saw Mischa Barton” and it probably sounds really fucking cool and glamorous…but it was actually one of my loneliest nights in Paris. (Cue Emo tear.)