Tonight at Le Souk, while I was unsuccessfully trying to recapture my Morocco experience, our chiseled and groomed waiter (surely a model) asked us if we were part of the Fashion Week party they were having. We explained that we were focused on getting an authentic meal, aghast that they were out of Moroccan wine (all of them???). At least I did get to try their take on bastilla, the sweet chicken pie that's off-putting if you're not prepared for the confectioner's sugar on top.
In truth, Le Souk is exactly the kind of place that Fashion Week partygoers go to. I should've spent more time researching an authentic Moroccan experience, but I've been too busy or too depressed or too whatever to focus my energy on it, so I just went with the place I'd been to before.
The aforementioned Fashion Week party was the reason it took 40 minutes to get a glass of wine and a bread basket, but the bread - with its double-olive tapenade dipping bowl - was actually so good it was worth it. More or less the kind of Moroccan bread pocket we'd gotten used to, this kind had a kick to it, and hot out the oven, it was actually better than what we'd had during our trip.
I was a little hung over from the Fashion Week party I had been to the night before, a work function featuring a performance by a band I don't get to work with, Semi Precious Weapons. I got to hang out with hottie actor/singer Drew Seeley (a dreamboat for the tween set), and see SPW's fantastic, glammed-out, dirty rock show up close, and take some gorgeous photos of lead singer Justin, who himself is, self-proclaimed, "fucking gorgeous."
I felt out of place with all of the trashy chic artists, musicians and fashionistas that were singing along to all of the words. It's been a long time since I've been out on the party scene. And carrying my big bag with my gym clothes inside from pilates class earlier, I felt kind of like somebody's older sister that they had to invite. I was sweating and claustrophobic and so not cool. I didn't even really want to drink.
The cast from MTV's The Real World: Brooklyn was there with their camera crews, and, unlike the last time I encountered a Real World cast at a Gene Simmons Tongue magazine party a million years ago, I had no desire to weasel my way into that scene and get on camera. I just knew I didn't belong. And I accepted that.
So I guess the Fashion Week scene just isn't for me. But the question is: what scene is for me?