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Unlike some of the other fashion moguls I know of, I didn’t purchase one of the newer constructions, trying to benouveau riche. Those all feel like soulless high-rises that smack of pretension and wealth to me.
Instead, I renovated an older apartment. It was built in the period between the world wars, and as such, it has a lot of the charming touches that modern apartments lack.
Yes, there are challenges. Insulation is terrible, and sometimes I feel like I might run out of electrical sockets or overload the building’s wiring. But it’s all worth it for the view from my balcony, nothing famous, but a regular Parisian neighborhood, complete with a small park, is perfect for me.
I make myself a simple breakfast of warm muesli and juice. Xerxes gets lightly seared beef bites in his bowl. Yes, my dog eats better than some people. But if I can spoil anyone, I can spoil him.
“Will you be a good boy while I’m at work?” I ask Xerxes.
On a whim, I grab a link of sausage from the refrigerator to add to my bowl, but just as I sit down, Xerxes comes flying over, jumping to snatch the sausage from my hand.
“You little shit nugget!” I yell, chasing the naughty monster. Xerx runs across the living room, keeping the couch between us so I can’t steal back his prize. He pauses on the far side long enough to bite the sausage in half, swallowing both too-big bites almost without chewing. I glare, my hands on the back of the sofa as I measure the best way to reach him. “You wanna see if Yorkies can fly?”
“Arf!”
“Keep it up,” I tell him as I give up, knowing there’s no use in fighting for a sausage that’s already gone. I sit and start quickly eating my breakfast. “Your days might be numbered.”
Xerxes tilts his head, his tongue lolling out of his mouth as if he’s laughing at me. He might be. He knows my threats are as empty as his perpetually hollow stomach.
Once my bowl and Xerxes’s are empty, I toss them in the dishwasher. After a quick shower, I pull on a pair of running pants and a tight white cotton tank-top before putting on my favorite pair of Asics, ready for my morning’s activities.
Outside, I stop at the corner to talk withMadameLaurent. Seventy-seven years old, she comes every day to her little corner station to sellbaguettes. She says it’s mostly to keep herself busy and entertained in her old age since her husband died, but I suspect it’s also because she needs the small amount of income she earns each day.
“Good morning!” I greet her, winking and bowing grandly as I take her soft-skinned, bony hand. “When are you going to answer my deepest prayers and become my bride?”
MadameLaurent rolls her eyes, waving me off. “Oh, hush, you scoundrel! You know I’m too much woman for you!”
I grin, placing a kiss on her arthritic knuckles. “Perhaps. How are you this morning,Madame?”
“The back is acting up, but it’s nothing I can’t handle,” she assures me. “The doctors tell me that it’s the rheumatism. But, eh... what can I expect at my age?” she says with a lift of her bony shoulder.
“Well I think you should expect the best at any age. If you are correct, you’re not surprised. If you’re incorrect, you can obsessively talk about it, disgusting bowel movements and all, and no one bats an eye.” Charmed at my irreverence, she giggles, the sound a lovely reminder of a youngerMadameLaurent. “And tomorrow, can I get one of your wonderful baguettes?”
“I’ll give you one, if you give me yours!” she teases saucily, making me laugh.
We joke all the time, and it’s with a little hop in my step that I climb into my Bugatti and drive out of my nice, respectable neighborhood into one of the rougher areas on the outskirts of Paris, where I findL'orphelinat du Soleil,the Sun Orphanage. Originally a military armory and powder magazine owned by The Sun King, Louis XIV, the orphanage was started by Napoleon III before yet again we decided that royalty was something we were better off without.
Now, it’s one of the largest non-religious children’s homes in Paris, and as I pull up, I think about this ritual. I typically come on Saturday mornings, but with the weekly competitions culminating with Saturday evening fashion shows, I’ve made other arrangements for the next few weeks because the care given here is close to my heart and I wouldn’t dream of skipping my visits. I park, smiling to myself as I see that my five charges are already outside, warming up by kicking a soccer ball around.
There’s tall, blond and lanky Claude, who can jump like a mountain goat yet somehow stumbles over every pebble in his path. Or sometimes even when there’s nothing but air in his way.
There’s Raphael, who’s dark, deep-voiced, and stocky. Though still a teen, he’s often mistaken for a man much older, and he uses that to his advantage. He’s the least capable jumper, but his balance and upper body strength are without equal.
Samuel, the jokester of the group. He uses his sense of humor as a defense mechanism to hide his sensitive soul. He’s been through a lot in his short seventeen years, more than any other boy I’ve worked with, but yet, you’d never know it until something breaks through his armor of humor to the tender heart beneath. The last time that happened, I found him crying over a dead bird that he’d never even seen before.
Then there’s Theodore, our sarcastic counter to Samuel’s more lighthearted humor. He’s just as scarred, but with a darker edge to his humor that is the opposite of his nearly platinum blond hair and good looks.
Finally, there’s the most troubled and oldest of them, Tristan. Tall and grumpy, he trusts almost nobody. Considering the number of times he’s been betrayed by those who had called themselves his family, I understand. I handle him with silk gloves, as carefully as if he were made of dynamite. I’m still trying to find that connection with him that will allow me to help guide him into an adulthood of happiness.
They’re calling out insults to one another as they kick the ball, mostly related to dick size and promiscuity.
They’re good kids who are going to be good men, if given the proper guidance and mentorship. I plan to be that for them. That’s why we started doingparkourtogether, the running and skills creating an individual transformation based on awareness of what’s around you and what’s inside you. This morning, like the guys, I could use a bit of focus myself too.
I clap my hands loudly, getting their attention. “Are we ready to run?”
Starting slowly, we take off, the boys letting me lead them through the property.I remember doing runs like this even before it was popularly known asparkour, jumping over obstacles, climbing fences and walls, seeing if I could do tricks off the obstacles. Back then, it was simply boys being wild. Now, we treat it much more formally, learning and growing as we go.
We loop the property as I increase the difficulty, stringing together larger jumps and more complex steps as we finish our warmups and leave the grounds to head into the surrounding neighborhood.
