Parisian socialites were abuzz about the sudden death of Ivana Trump, the first wife of US of A President Donald Trump. What a wife! What a life!
She fell down the stairs in her New York townhouse, probably in her heels and died on the spot. Her funeral kept me busy on the line watching it live. The ceremony stirred wags’ tongues as her portrait exhibited during the funeral showed her in a Vanity Fair magazine cover in her signature blond Bardot hairstyle wearing a white froufrou dress on a yellow couch.
What caught my eye was Imelda hugging a headline in that same cover. Apparently, the family took out a main headliner on Hillary Clinton.
Ivana will always be a trailblazer. This feisty blondeshell helped organize the financial empire that is “The Trump”, my first glimpse of the Trump Tower from Lola Benit’s New York Buckingham flat. I really wasn’t impressed with it because Mamá had already described it way beforehand in her annual travels with Papá. La Ivana was known for her accent which added Hollywood charm to an otherwise immigré status.
Actually, I had the chance to meet her twice up close. The first time was for lunch in some trendy beach club in St. Tropéz. La Nenuca d Grimaldi, e.g. Eduardo Lacson who threatened to be out all day as we made ligid-ligid in a rented flat near the village’s parking lot where Mick Jagger married Bianca.
One must be seen at the beach daily and he had a Lexus convertible that we depended on moving around. All ended well with us being included for lunch with Ivana. Ahay, there she was with lush lips, a wide brimmed fuschia red straw carrying a lap dog.
After our introductions, we were seated at the table and she passed onto Pål’s arms her furry pet, as she searched something from her bag. Meanwhile, a waiter comes with a bottle of Dom Perignon champagne announcing with élan, that it was offered by a gentleman not far from our table.
With a nod towards the young admirer, we talked a bit, most of the conversation was with Nene Lacson as Pål was stuck holding her pooch! Makati real estate tycoon Nonoy Campos could only gape. The lunch ended with us paying the bill.
The second time was in the port side of St. Tropéz having drinks at the famous Senequier café and resto where I had my first taste of soupe de poisson with its matching rouille way back in the 70’s, when a cup of espresso cost $2 compared to today’s €15. But hey, you’re in St. Trop and having fun, sun and sex! Ahhh, those days are long gone.
There we were, joined this time by Parisian socialite gent Erwan Legouar and our very own Cris Claparols Rodriguez. Talking with her signature accent, la Ivana looked tired. After an hour of social banter, she was escorted by Cris to her residence just behind the Senequier. Hmmm, I forgot who paid the bill.
Otherwise, here in the umbrage from the sun, watching the Tour de France come to an end in Paris. Ahhh, the bikers rolling down the wide Avenue des Champs Elysées, the tricolor waving bravely with the summer’s breeze. Happy Birthday to Paris’ impresario Jeremy Dumont!
MY PRAYER
I have other sheep that are not of this sheep pen. I must bring them also. They too will listen to my voice, and there shall be one flock and one shepherd. John 10:16, NIV*
