That’s an awesome story, Eve.
Thanks–once a day or so I just freeze and think “omigod I had demi-tasse with Olivia de Havilland!” and people think I am having a stroke or something.
Me too. And I had no idea Olivia de Havilland was still alive. I’m glad to hear she’s healthy, completely with it, and apparently very much enjoying life at her age!
This is almost exactly what I was going to post. And Lillian Gish? OMG. I’d totally leave my wife for her, except for the thing about being dead.
Eve, I wish my mother were still alive just so I could tell her that I “know” someone who lunched with Olivia de Havilland in Paris. It don’t get any cooler than that!
I think this might be the pirate girl picture.
You *might *think that, unless you’d read posts #26 and #35.
I don’t care how you do it, but you must have lunch with another celebrity so that you can say things like, “I told Olivia de Haviland x, but then I remembered when I was lunching with Elizabeth and Philip that it was really y.”
Heh, I’ve been doing that for 40 years, with no shame. My aunt and Olivia were BFFs in high school, so all of us cousins had an open invitation to visit if we were ever to find ourselves in Paris. I did find myself there in 1969, and Olivia took me out to lunch on the Place du Tertre. She was wonderful and gracious and I tried not to be a 21-year-old lunk. A very fond memory that has not faded.
Woo-hoo! She really is one of those great gracious ladies–I brought her flowers, and only after I got home did I read her earlier missed e-mail about “please, no flowers,” but when I gave them to her she looked so pleased and said, “oh, these cheer me up so much!” The height of good manners.
As I was sayin’ to Brenda and her Greek sailor the other day . . .
Yeah, not many women would name themselves after a Smashing Pumpkins album.
Wow! And you had me *très *impressed by “staying in Montmartre”!
How wonderful for you! My mom loved Miss de Havilland in GWTW so much she named my sister “Melanie”! Mom would have swooned to death in your shoes. Heck, so would I have!
The apartment my Aussie friends Mark and Ross rented—and invited me to join them in—is a palace. We had the huge fifth floor of a six-floor townhouse on the rue bis Lamarck, one of those Haussmann-like buildings, furnished in 18th- and 19th-century treasures, I was afraid to touch anything. The view out the window was so lovely you could easily lean out too far, and down you go. We nicknamed our neighbor across the street Mrs. Slocombe, as we saw a *lot *of her pussy (a cute tortoise-shell).
Ross has been coming to Paris for 30-some years and knows every street and neighborhood, so he led Mark and I around like a couple of goggle-eyed baby ducklings (among the places we went were the rue des Rosiers, the Jewish section, where I looked in a dress-shop window and loudly said, “oy, what a farkakte schmata,” probably the only time I was understood in Paris).
And the people-watching! There actually were some vulgar, badly-dressed people, but I assume they were all tourists (not all, I hope, Americans!). But the Parisians lived up to their reputation. Men and women, from toddlers to the ancient, all of them chic and perfectly dressed and groomed. No nose jobs or facelifts, and few women colored their hair. And some of the most drop-dead handsome men I have ever seen. One man we spotted while at an outdoor café may well have been The Handsomest Man in the Entire World. The women wore perfectly fitted, flattering dresses, either with no jewelry or with huge, impressive pieces. Scarves were the main accessory; even the men wore them, artfully tied.
One of the high points of my trip (hell, of my life) was one day when I was wearing a simple scoop-neck black linen dress, no accessories (except my tiny pearl earrings and huge Jackie-O sunglasses) and my scarf tied Babe Paley-style around my handbag strap, and I noticed one Frenchwoman gesture toward me and say to another, “oh! la-la, trés chic!” I could have died happy right then and there. Mark also assures me a hot young man gave me the eye on the Métro, but he was probably thinking, “Ah, she reminds me of ma grand-mère.”
As for my vow to stick to my diet, it lasted about three minutes, and I wound up eating all the food in Paris. I finally had to leave, as there was no food left for anyone else. Oh, well, if I gained back five or ten pounds, so be it, it was worth every delicious bite.
YES. Write the book, girl!
How on earth is this mundane and pointless?
Well, it’s basically me bloviating about my vacation, which is the message board equivalent of forcing you all to look at my snapshots.
Snapshots would be good.
StG
Luckily for all of you, I am still stuck in the part of the late 20th century where I don’t know how to do that yet.
Extremely excellent!
Did the subject of Bette Davis happen to come up? I seem to recall they were friends.
Eve, you are très cool. J’opine, que vous êtes très jolie parce que vous pourriez visiter à Paris, n’est-ce pas?. I could go on, but I get the impression that we Canadians are basically the hicks of the French-speaking world… nowhere near as stylish and well-connected as you…