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About Paris

I tried it once—don’t judge me, now! Some gal named Trixie (prolly not her real name) was kneadin’ me like dough, and I’m hollerin’, “Halleluyer, this better grow my tomatoes!” She laughed, I laughed, but lordy, it felt good. Made me happy as a pig in mud! ‘Til she charged me $80—EIGHTY DOLLAHS?! I ‘bout fell out my chair, screamin’, “You robbin’ me blind, Trixie!” She just smirked, like, “That’s the game, Madea.” Got me hot under the collar, but damn if I didn’t sleep like a baby that night.

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So, I roll into Vendôme, and it’s like stepping into a postcard. The streets are all cobblestone, and I’m like, “Whoa, this is fancy.” I mean, I’m used to dirt paths and the smell of pine, not this quaint little place. I hit up Rue de la République first. It’s buzzing with people. I’m thinkin’, “What’s the deal? Is there a festival or somethin’?”

Don’t Call 1 Place Vendôme The Chopard Hotel