The Wallonie-Bruxelles Délégation in Paris is trashed when I arrive. The floor is a graveyard of confetti and empty bottles.
There are crumbled newspapers and half-deflated balloons. Towels, tape, and various articles of trash are scattered all around the grand hall and stage, and a big tray of pains au chocolat sits there almost untouched from the night before. Peering over these scenes of post-party carnage is one reveler, clad in a pinstripe top and a black skirt, with a sheet of toilet paper stuck to the bottom of her heels. She squints, still mildly inebriated, before making her way down the stage, using the wall to steady herself. Guests gather in a semi-circle, some peering down from a second-story balcony, all eyes on her. It’s hard to look away — until I feel a gentle nudge from behind. Another model eases her way through the crowd and into the spotlight. Wait … is she wearing a table? And are those croissants?