Letter to Manon Meijers

(Mays NBFF)

Yesterday I received mail from my pen pal. Digital mail, of course. It's 2017 after all. How this budding pen friendship all started you can here read; something with a tie clip and some fashion criticism. And here is the proof that it all turned out well and that now it's all good. Then we feared the black, deep, infinite void that would follow after The Voice and our weekly chit-chat. How would that continue? Manon went down the rivers with her love (tie clip wearer of the year), because where is the party? There is the party. And she wrote about that. Here. So now I write back.

Dear Manon,

So you're trying to lure me a bit to team carnival? Little party animal that you are. That's what you get when you date a tie clip with a fashionable G. And then still say it's more fun than Fashion Week too. While I'm sitting in Paris, mind you. And what do you think? I was too early. Fashion Week here is doing a bit of a lame warm-up. With me.

All Tommy's fault. And Gigi.

It all comes from those fashion weeks. I don't need to explain that to you, but still, they follow each other. First New York, then London, then Milan and then Paris. So if you know when New York starts, you can (literally on your fingers) count when you need to be in Paris. Some things in fashion are incredibly predictable. Well done, but what turned out? Because Tommy Hilfiger suddenly held his show in Los Angeles, everything in New York started earlier. A week even. All cities obediently participated in the advanced schedule, but Paris of course not. They would deviate from what they've been doing for years. The idea. That's why they still serve moules frites and croques madames and a steak here, and further you should keep your waffle.

Moral of a much too long story: I'm here too early, while it's buzzing in Brabant. And I and my neon Jimmy Choos would have fit in very well there. Damn.

Lily slurped from her glass, poked her fork into a leaf of greens and then dabbed it on the linen tablecloth.

Not that it's very unpleasant, you know. I'm here with my sales director and we've been thinking a lot about the future for a long time. Normally we do that in an Amsterdam hotel, but now in Costes in Paris. First lunch. Since we were there anyway, a cautious glass could be added, what do you think? At half past four we had a real appointment (yes!). We would still get the location. ‘Maybe not very original, but shall we do Costes?’ my contact texted. Purima idea, we thought. We moved from our duo to a trio and whether we wanted a coupe de champagne. It was Monday afternoon half past four, but hey, well in Paris so ‘yes, please’ was the answer.

Then something beautiful sat down next to us, dear Manon. My model radar immediately went to work. At least 1.78, check. Deconstructed jeans, check, big leather jacket with lamb lining, check, no makeup, bingo. Top model. Now just to know who. I gently nudged my table companions while the model in question had three glasses of wine brought over and I looked at which hair suited her best. Those are instant plus points. Daniëlle pretended to check her messages, took a picture and sent it to our group chat. Within a minute our editor Elke (who has an encyclopedia of celebs and models built in her head) came with the answer. Lily Donaldson. Lily! I ‘know’ her from when she just started. Yyyyyears ago.

In the meantime, her salad had arrived. Think a lot of green lettuce. Actually, it was a big green bud with an occasional stray shrimp in between. Lily slurped from her glass, poked her fork into a leaf of greens and then dabbed it on the linen tablecloth. Again and again and again. You'd think as a model you'd get a drop of olive oil.

Fortunately, she ordered another glass for herself, looked at our magazine on our table with above-average interest and was my model of the day.

Meanwhile, a second glass had arrived (no idea how that suddenly happened), but actually it was already dinner time. We walked to Place du Marché Saint-Honoré (there by that great vintage store straight ahead), where you find all cozy Parisian restaurants. We pretended to smoke and settled on the terrace, cowardly ordered a diet cola and laughed from our French chairs. I actually went to bed early, but of course I had already celebrated the party during the day.

Moral? Is there one? Next year I'll be there, down the rivers in the land of tie clips, sausage rolls and Schrobbelèrs (I actually have no idea what that is, but it sounds festive so I'm a fan). Then we'll dab salad leaves on the linen of Hotel Costes, okay?

Love, May