I have been to the French Open but never to the U.S Open. (Bad American!) So when my mom told me that she had tickets for the Murray v.s Devvarman game, I couldn't think of another way to spend my last week in New York than at The Open. Yes, 'The Open'. La classe! To play the role of a total bourgeoise princess who I call Whitney, I wore a white pleated skirt, a yellow summer cashmere sweater, a navy blue and white striped cardigan that I obnoxiously wore over my shoulders and cat-eye sunglasses that were probably a bit too avant-garde for Whitney but they were a gift from her friend Marc Jacobs.
The Open is sponsored by my two favorite wine and spirits brands Grey Goose and Moët so the crisis of choosing which bar to go to was as overwhelming as deciding between Birkin and Bardot. I know, life is hard sometimes. Both bars looked so appealing and being sucker for visual merchandising, I was torn. The little French flags waving over scenic illustrations of geese soaring over frosty glaciers from the Grey Goose bar pulled me towards them but then the pristine gold Moët bar that featured lined up flutes of sparkling champagne spilling over in bubbly bliss pulled me back to Moët. Clearly, this was the decision of a lifetime but as they say, money talks and the 22 dollar glasses of champagne lost over the 13 dollar Official U.S Open Cocktail called the Grey Goose Honey Deuce that came complete with a commemorative glass. I'm also a sucker for gimmicks particularly ones the rhyme and free shit. Step it up next year, Moët...
We got to our seats up in the third tier and settled in for 'the match' while slurping up on our Honey Deuces. Staying in character, after every good play, I insisted on gently clapping and looked left and right with pursed lips. My mother was going to murder me. Watching the ball go back and forth was hypnotizing, drifting me off into a Grey Goose haze and thinking about what I have to deal with when I get back to Paris. Irritating thoughts of my subletter wafted in followed by wistful 'what-ifs' of Moniseur Flâneur, hopeful prospects of Sébastien, worrisome potentials regarding my carte de séjour and work. With all of these thoughts scattering through my brain like cockroaches, I started to stress myself. Just as my eyes were drifting off and my thoughts were going deeper into the piles of things I need to do, I heard my mother laughing, screaming and pointing. I looked up and there I was on the screen. The camera had panned the crowd and there I was on both big screens and I looked just awful; a mix of bitch face and looking constipated. Wonderful.
After Murray creamed Devvarman, we had the option to stay for the next match but I was anxious to get back to my mom's house to Skype Monsieur Flâneur for an apartment update. I called him just as he was letting himself where he found my place left in total squalor. "If there were animals hoarding in here, it would be comparable to 'Grey Gardens'!" said MF. "Ça pue!" And yes, he did use 'Grey Gardens' as a reference. When we were together, I forced him to watch the documentary and the HBO movie, so now whenever there's a mess, le bordel, it's 'Grey Gardens'. He continued describing the condition of the flat where there were broken lamps on the floor, cigarettes in the sink, crust in the toilet, dirt of the carpet, shredded linens, rotten food in the fridge and the stench of vomit in my little chambre de bonne. What the hell went on in there? Did Pete Doherty who lives up the street stop by to say what's up? I'm surprised she didn't throw my tv out the window. Holy shit.
I'm enjoying my last days in New York with my family, friends and doing 'New York-y' things. As annoyed as I get here in New York, I have to remember Paris can be just as annoying - if not more. Today is about appreciating my last few days, realizing that my vacation is coming to a screaming halt and that it's September; back to the real world. Putain...