Pimp of the Week: Luca Bassani Antivari

In the Marilyn Monroe classic, Some Like It Hot, there were a few of my favorite things: train travel, cross-dressing, and big boats. But these days, not even a classic yacht off the coast of Florida satisfies the appetite of a high roller. And that's why the international yacht man du jour, Luca Bassani Antivari, has teamed up with Hermès fashion house to create a boat that is so big it's actually an island.

Luca Bassani Antivari is the president of the famous Monaco-based yacht company, Wally, and he unveiled his futuristic creation at the Abu Dhabi yacht show. Antivari says, "Everybody's dream is to live on an island, in complete freedom, without constraint." It sounds like the attitude of a pimp who likes to live outside the law and maybe even abduct some willing captives.

"shabby people"

While skiing in the French Alpine resort town of Val-d'Isère, I encountered many a Slim Aarons situation. From the lounge chairs at the foot of the slopes, to the Frenchies drinking mid-afternoon red wine in those lounge chairs, it was a surreally elegant ski experience.

From my early years, I recall awkward moments at ski school involving a combination ski suit with suspenders and a desperate need to go pee while riding on the chair lift. I always wanted to become that girl in the snow bunny outfit like some Bavarian ice princess at her chalet in Gstaad sipping slope-side champagne and wearing furry boots that look like animals.

This time around, my sartorial choices were more 1970s-pimp than 1980s snow princess. But no matter what sort of Italian magenta jumpsuit or rabbit fur chapka hat you wear, the awkward mountaintop experiences of youth still abound. Ski boots inevitably make you walk like you have a load in your pants, and falling on your ass is practically a requirement.

The Bay of Bengal

Jet setting is the best, especially if it is on the arm of a dashing man or woman who has piles of money to spend on plane tickets and lavish hotel suites. In theory. In the movies, that is.

A flight attendant friend of mine makes a lifestyle out of meeting men in the first class cabin. She's seen most of the globe and has more stories of luxury travel at the top than Hugh Hefner, or Condoleezza Rice.

She was recently invited for a romantic last-minute trip from Barcelona to New York. Unfortunately, when she arrived to the Manhattan hotel room of her gentleman friend, she picked up his cell phone and found that he had sent the same text message invitation to a multitude of women. It was an international chain text message booty call, and she was the unlucky one who responded. This time the Wanker of the Week met a literal Princess in Flight.

The Pedagogue

There is a stereotype about The French that they only like to travel so that they can complain about how inferior every country is to France. But I recently read that some French travelers are searching for a genuinely thrilling experience in their next vacation: they are paying a minimum of $1,200 to Ultime Réalité for someone to kidnap and imprison them for four hours.

If they are true high rollers, then they'll opt for a package that is more expensive and custom-designed to their mental histories (and most likely, mental illnesses, considering that they are paying to be tied up, gagged, and carted away). It makes me think of Michael Douglas in the classic psychological thriller of capitalist malaise, The Game. The only birthday gift his brother can think to get him is the most elaborate "abduction package" money can buy.

Smarming

I cut right from India to the land of the colonizers themselves. During my weekend in London I took advantage of that dry British humor by passing my time with a gaggle of Etonian boys. My host resided alone in the drafty townhouse of his parents, studying law by day and drinking G&Ts by night. His parents visit him on occasion, bearing sausages from their hog farm.

On this particular evening of "drinks with a view to dinner" (in the words of my well-bred host), the dinner menu involved the most surprisingly to-die-for dessert that I've had in years. In Britain people use the slightly unappetizing word "pudding" to refer to any form of dessert. And this night's pudding involved a steamed sponge cake soaked in Treacle, accompanied by a whipped cream. There is something about Treacle that fails to disappoint. It is a golden syrup laced with lovely soporific effects. I slept soundly in the drawing room, visions of Aloysius dancing in my head.

Upright Position

While resting my legs after a long day of touring Indian temples, I settled down in the empty hotel bar to savor a non-alcoholic chai nightcap. But before I knew it a very drunk man approached my table with a lascivious glint in his eye. He was a creeper to the core.

He started telling me about how he "comes from the land of the snake charmer, where there are a lot of spices..." and then he kissed my hand and stumbled away. But a few minutes later he was back, offering me "a lot of fun" and his business card. He is a banker. From New York to New Delhi, investment bankers and cocktails make for a dangerous mix ending in a security escort out of the building, or hotel in the case of the 'snake charmer.'

Chintz-Covered

At Kali Temple in Calcutta thousands of Hindu worshippers line up to give offerings to the Brahman priests, creating a scene of pandemonium I can only compare to that of the New York Stock Exchange. Women congregate at the sacred fertility tree nearby and pray for luck in marriage and pregnancy.

When my male friend and I visited the Kali Temple, a jovial Brahman priest gave us an unsolicited tour. He finished by blessing us with 'sacred' red strings and asking us for money. Then he inquired as to whether or not we were married. My friend replied that we were not married. Then the Brahman priest asked if we were friends. I replied that we were not friends. Then the Brahman priest exclaimed, "Not married, not friend, there is nothing else!" In India dating doesn't exist as an institution of ambiguity as it does in The West. Perhaps I should have joined the women praying at the tree of fertility and conjugal bliss.

Pushing The Envelope

One afternoon in India while wandering an ancient cave site, a great deal of Indian tourists started asking to take my photograph. One young man's mother was delighted when I agreed to stand next to her son and smile into the camera, like we were sitting for an arranged marriage portrait.

After months of being an impossibly un-French American expatriate in Paris, it was refreshing to be around some Indian people who relished my American appearance.

A harmless adolescent creeper approached me and asked where I was from. He quickly exclaimed, "America! Wow! Amazing ... America is the most disciplined country in the world. To us, that is what we believe." I guess they haven't watched very much American reality television in India.

"antiseptic perfumed cream"

My friend and I were recently pashmina-bartering in the splendor and squalor of Calcutta's New Market, where you can find stacks of eggs in extraordinary bulk, baskets of chickens, butchered animals, spices, and loads of Indian fabrics. After we purchased a rainbow of pashminas for about 2 dollars each, an overly solicitous man whispered in our ears about a secret store in the basement where we could buy shahtoosh -- a type of shawl woven from the finest neck-hairs of endangered Tibetan antelopes, making it the most coveted (and illegal) scarf in the world.

Our salesman claimed that his shahtoosh was "all natural" so it was not technically illegal. But during my entire time in India I never saw a single policeman (only a few traffic directors in uniform), so I don't think the salesman was too concerned about legal issues.

He was so determined to sell us his shahtoosh that he started recounting stories of his childhood as an orphan and being raised by Mother Theresa. Apparently all his shahtoosh profits go to "the children." He and his troop of associates swarmed around us for almost an hour, offering us glasses of sweet chai and thrusting so many scarves, tablecloths, leather jackets, and jewels in our faces that we left the New Market feeling dazed and endeared by these charmingly brazen salesmen.

Dressed For Dinner

I was wandering the crowded banana-stand-filled market streets of Puri, India, when I turned onto an alleyway to admire a lovely broken-down air conditioning unit and a typical vendor selling Lay's masala-flavored potato chips, chewing tobacco spices, stacks of cashew nuts, and other essentials. I paused to snap a photograph of an old poster for a Hindi movie whose tagline was "THE PLEASING TOUCH!"

Suddenly a young man popped out at me and said, "3 rupees and I look at you." He proceeded to undress his unique lower-body sarong ensemble. And that was my cue to return to my vehicle. He was offering me the equivalent of 6 cents to look at me as he fondled himself. He was a creeper to be sure, but somehow the interaction was less threatening than the Western World equivalent -- especially since it was a colorful sarong being undone instead of a zipper.

An Uncanny Resemblance

The best thing about being a tourist is ogling other tourists and deducing their nationalities. In a bar with a distant view of the Taj Mahal, I found myself culturally confused: the American girl, in India, with a French man, at a British-colonialist-style resort, observing two Italian women sipping cocktails (or perhaps they were Spanish, or Greek ... it was hard to discern at first).

They were both well-dressed, well coiffed, dripping in designers, young, brunette, and pretty. One of them wore a threateningly large emerald ring, had a haughty look on her face, and sipped a mimosa. The other girl wore a headband embellished with a satin bow and had a sweet smile. She opted out of her friend's prissy champagne cocktail and ordered various ingredients from the bartender to create an odd concoction of tomato juice, beer, Tabasco sauce, celery salt, and Worcestershire sauce. Talk about gauche. We finally asked her about her custom drink and discovered that they are from Mexico. And when I saw the Worcestershire sauce, I was about to guess Great Britain.

But how much can you really tell about a person from what they drink? In Chile, Argentina, and India, I noticed ads for Johnnie Walker everywhere. I guess globalization turns international people watching into true detective work.

40 Thieves & An Engagement!

On a recent trip to Venice, my sister and I found ourselves eating one of the most delicious meals of our lives at Osteria Ai 40 Ladroni, or The Forty Thieves. It is an exceptional restaurant not only for its to-die-for squid ink pasta dish but also for the fact that it's where my sister got married.

There was a charming and virile-looking Italian waiter serving us. And my sister is famous for her Strega-Nona-like love of pasta, so she turned to me midway through the meal and said, "This waiter is cute, right? And he could serve me the most delicious homemade pasta, and he lives in Venice, a beautiful city." Since her horoscope had recently informed her that she would meet the love of her life that day, one thing led to another ... and before we knew it, Maurizio (as he was called) was announcing to the packed room of Italian families: "I present to you my wife!" Everyone was clapping and laughing and drinking limoncello.

Enough with the emotionally unavailable men -- here's to Italian princes bearing plates of pasta and seafood delicacies. Though Maurizio doesn't have an email address, he promised to do some email writing to my sister by way of the restaurant's office. After all, unfulfilled love affairs are usually more romantic.

Pimp of the Week: François Pinault

In terms of billionaires in the world, François Pinault is apparently around number 39. He is the ultimate Frenchman of luxury, owning Gucci, Christie's auction house, the Vail Ski Resort, and that sort of modest NGO-based work. But the best thing about this capitalist pimp is that he bought a beautiful old customs building and a marble palace on Venice's Grand Canal, and then he turned them into museums for his extraordinary contemporary art collection: the Punta Della Dogana and the Palazzo Grassi.

His son, François-Henri Pinault, is married to Hollywood hot actress Salma Hayek. In fact, they got married twice -- first in Paris and then in Venice. Just for good measure. There are some things money can't buy (like marital bliss), but there are other things (like a Venetian-masquerade wedding reception, or a Felix Gonzalez-Torres installation), where a lot of money can't hurt.

"an ungarnished colonial"

The excessively civilized Caffe Florian, overlooking the Plaza San Marco, is the Venetian equivalent to the eternally posh Café de Flore on Paris' Left Bank: there are waiters in white jackets and it is generally inadmissible to look or act like a tourist (though tourists inevitably abound).

Gauche Things to do in a Chic (Elitist) European Café:

1. Bringing a Starbuck's thermos and telling your waiter, "Fill it up!"

2. Wearing sweatpants, or any garment involving an elastic band.

3. Taking a picture of anything, especially your waiter's head as he is serving you.

4. Informing other diners that you find the décor a bit outdated -- and that you think the IHOP on Route 1 has a much more contemporary flair.

5. While en route to the WC, pilfering large quantities of wrapped house chocolates (customarily served as an accompaniment to the espresso drinks).

6. Exclaiming in horror, "10 Euros for a Coke!"

"are you enfianced?"

Nestled underneath the arcades of the Place Des Vosges, I debriefed on my underwhelming impression of Berlin with a couple of true Parisians. The zany stranger seated at the neighboring table overheard my less than complimentary comments about Berlin, and we delved into a discussion of urban gentrification (and the irritating characters who accompany it). There are the bobos in Paris's 17th arrondissement ("Bobo" is a term for Frenchies who are simultaneously "bourgeois" and "bohemian"); there are the yuppies in Manhattan's Murray Hill; there are the hipsters in Brooklyn's Williamsburg.

But nowadays there is something more offensive than yuppies or hipsters: the yipster. Yuppie + Hipster = Yipster. Yipsters tend to reside post-college on the Upper East Side (where they live rent-free in apartments formerly occupied by their grandmothers). But the yipster quickly accumulates enough wealth to move to Williamsburg, where they stock their kitchens with Whole Foods groceries and frequent the gym in their full service river-view buildings.

The yipster drinks Red Stripe beers out of the bottle at the local backyard bar venue on Friday nights. The yipster probably went to Harvard but prefers to hang out on weekends with up-and-coming artists who went to RISD. I suppose I am similar to a yipster, except that yipsters usually have real jobs so that they can eventually buy a house in Westchester County, forget the "grunge" of Brooklyn, and buy the paintings of their former 'artist friends' who gain credibility from Christie's contemporary art auction.

Pimp of the Week: Helmut Newton

Helmut Newton is a total pimp. He was a seminal fashion photographer in the 1970s. I visited the Helmut Newton Foundation in Berlin and was spellbound by Newton's pictures -- always erotically charged, slightly deranged, subversive, and sinister in a way that exposed the fallacy of the luxe lifestyle.

His handwritten letters to various fashion editors are particularly amusing. He once wrote to Anna Wintour, "I love high riders like Gary Cooper used to wear." And he tended to sign his letters with: "From the old naughty boy!"

Newton once said about his preference of models, "Please make sure you get a gal with some muscle and meat on her -- none of those starved females!! Horrible matchstick women." He knew that the whole heroin/anorexic-chic look was useless in artistic photography, and useless in general.

Restaurant Review: Cookies Cream in Berlin

Berlin is the new European hotspot for starving artists to commune, collaborate, and get crunk. But there is something so American about the post-Communist commercial build-up that makes Berlin look like Denver, Colorado. I searched high and low for its vibrant, seething underbelly of grittiness and avant-garde art.

Even though I was too tired to engage in Berlin's raging underground nightlife, I was able to enjoy its hidden-away culinary delights. One highbrow vegetarian restaurant, Cookies Cream, is concealed down an alleyway, amidst dumpsters and abandoned chandeliers. I had to go through the back door of the popular nightclub, Cookies, walk through the deserted coatroom, and mount the stairs to finally arrive at the oasis of non-carnivorous delights. The experience called to mind Manhattan's chic hot dog and cocktail joint du jour, PDT (Please Don't Tell), which can only be accessed through a phone booth inside the dive hot dog shop next door.

But at Cookies Cream in Berlin I feasted on vegetarian marvels such as "Elder pear barley with cream of pea and fennel salad," "Potato-Leek-Gratin with beetroot and marsalla foam," and I swear it was delicious (even if compared with meat-eaters' food). And dessert was delicious: caramelized sour cream tart with peanut ice cream (divine) and gingerbread mousse with marinated blackberries. Plus, there was a lesbian-gay night at the club downstairs, so the ambiance was filled with the cozy homosexual vibes that give such good energy.

The Showcases

I had a true Bavarian Christmas with my endlessly entertaining German cousins. They are my third cousins, so technically they are considered "kissing cousins," which is an expression that either denotes "distant cousins familiar enough to kiss" or "cousins that are distant enough in relation that it is not the end of the world to kiss them." Either way, the expression is gauche, and probably not the best holiday dinner-table conversation.

After we celebrated Christmas with a roast goose at an old-school Bavarian golf, polo, and hot-air-ballooning club, my cousins and I continued to the bar where many of the German guests had brought their dogs with them during after-dinner drinks. One older man and his wife, who seemed Russian in temperament, had two Chihauhaus in tow (very 'Paris Hilton' and un-German of them). When the couple exited the lounge, my cousin asked, "What kind of dog is that?" and the portly man responded, "A very expensive kind." When we commented on the tiny dog's pink diamond-encrusted collar, the owner responded, "Yes, the collar was more expensive than the dog."

I guess on Christmas some people have kissing cousins to keep them company, and some people have their blonde wives and very small dogs.

Maple Syrup Meltdown

As a way of recovering from the inevitable traumas of the holiday season, Parisian women flock to the hammams, where they can sweat out the toxins of too much wine, too many cigarettes, and too many family dynamics. I had a splendid time sweating away inside the bathhouse of the Moroccan hammam at the Mosque de Paris. It was liberating to be in a room full of semi-nude women who were bonding with their friends while rubbing each other down with special black soap that exfoliates the body.

Dizzy from the hot steam in my face, I went on to the gommage process, which involved a small Russian woman scrubbing me from head-to-toe with a bristly glove. After a massage, more awkward sweating, showering, and public nudity, I was revived -- adrift in understanding dreams and transported to a land far more exotic than grey wintry Paris.

"goaty look"

When New Yorkers come to Paris, two worlds collide, but the Manhattan dynamic always seems to overpower the effeminate Frenchie ways. I recently went for a night out at Le Montana, an iconic 1960s club in Saint-Germain-des-Prés. The New Yorkers in the crowd insisted on taking vodka and tequila shots, which was a very un-French choice. Expensive champagne would have been more contextually appropriate, but once a New Yorker, always a New Yorker, I guess.

The evening devolved into a chaotic game, and before I knew it I put my men expert skills to the test and decided to vacate the premises. Dancing on tabletops and doing jump splits is one thing in the "dirty sexy money" atmosphere of New York City, but it is quite another thing in the semi-pretentious pseudo-refined city of Paris.