News of the demise of Spanish Marbella’s Disco Queen Olivia Valere brought beautiful memories back into my mind.
It was the 70’s and I was working for Club Med’s boutique department in its deluxe resort in Marrakech when suddenly my store was flooded with affordable long gowns in silk jersey that had plunging necklines and bare backs.
A most glamorous look that fit every size and shape, it was a two year phenomena that made the Valere brand of nightlife biased sheaths seem posh.
Mamá danced with the French Ambassador wearing one I gave her. It was my memorable years that I enjoyed, being independent enough from my parents’ allowance.
Papá summed it up with my free board, lodging and laundry that my salary of $150 a month gave me a lifestyle worth 10 times more. As bon vivant Rene Knecht would tell me later, “With you, $2,000 will see you through a millionaire’s, so don’t complain.”
And now, bedridden in Paris, I gloat on French peonies big as plates that change colors from vibrant reds, to fuschia and pink, then white until it withers in a creamy shade with withered petals that look like avatars.
Lady friends come and visit which turn into spontaneous dinner buffets with takeout food from around the corner. There’s a brand new crémerie which offer me fine cheese of infinitival variety that I’ve given up asking what’s new and just buy the creamiest and softest.
Choosing Asian fare is also available from 5 outlets that have noodles up to Chilean ceviche sushi style. And of course, the best hamburger in town and charcuterie butcher where I get grilled chicken if the choices make me dizzy. Plus Uber Eats and Deliveroo would make everything even easier, except I don’t like giving away my RED DOOR code since there are marauding teams of burglars and robbers hungry for fresh loot.
Meanwhile, I stay in bed and look out my French windows, reassured by the sight of a brand new Porsche in my courtyard.*
