It’s 3PM and the first time you’ve seen the light of day since 6am that morning when you rolled out of the club. You’re still wearing last night’s outfit and pretty sure you’re missing a heel and your dignity, but it doesn’t matter because your legs are looking skinnier than the pommes frites you didn’t eat last night.
As your French pro kisses you au revoir, you throw on your enormous sunglasses and as you pass the liquor store—hair of the dog, anyone?—you grab some vin just in case. Whatevs, rosé is about 8 Euros cheaper than Evian. It's almost like they want you to stay drunk.
Bien sûr they were, betch, you’re in Paris.
When deciding how to spend time studying #3 abroad, betches have many options. Do you pull a Kate Moss and go to London? Do you #27 tan all day on a yacht in Barcelona? Or do you go to Paris, a place so betchy that is makes every other city seem as glamorous as Detroit?
Paris is a betchy city for countless reasons but mostly because everyone is so fucking #5 skinny. Like seriously, try being a
healthy-sized borderline-ano girl in America and then get on the Paris Metro. Nothing will have you rethinking Laduree more than wondering what diet that blonde Frenchie is on, only to have her turn around and be a dude. If you haven’t lost your appetite yet, please just get off the train and watch the homeless men pee.
Ok, so like, full disclaimer, don’t eat anything in Paris because even though those baguettes look good they’re going straight to your ass. While your BMI might be considered "normal" in the US, in Paris you'll be known as a fat, lazy American girl. Take a hint from the French girls and alternate between smoking cigs and sipping Coke Light.
Oh, and if you’re thinking of going to the gym, bonne chance cause there are like, none.
Let's talk about shopping. Duh there are a lot of museums and cathedrals and shit in Paris to honor the Great Betch in the Sky, but what better museum to fill than your closest, n’est-ce pas?
The shoe department at the Galleries Lafayette is a must-do since it’s basically a betch's paradise. But unless your idea of heaven involves getting manhandled by Asian tourists in headsets, save your real shopping for Le Marais and the Rue Saint-Honoré. [Note to Asians: those headsets make you look like you’re working the drive-through at a BK Tokyo.] Grab yourself a new Goyard at their flagship store on your dad's black Amex, and be sure to scout Zadig and Voltaire for some tres chic new threads.
Which leads us to nightlife. A word to the wise, find a crew of Americans because most French people don’t know the meaning of blacking out. It’s like, if I wanted to drink one glass of wine every two hours I’d go to Bingo Night at my grandparents' in Palm Beach. Fucking duh.
A true betch begins her night at Prescription or Le Bar at Plaza Anthenee, continue to Le Baron or VIP Room, and end at Rasputin. Well, actually, nights should end in some pro’s bed, but that part’s up to you. Also, if you’re not getting bottle service of Magnum Rosé at these clubs, you might as well not bother going, because like…who the fuck are you?
So the next time you’re ordering iced coffee at your local Starbs and find yourself in line behind some hideously dressed whale, get yourself to the airport stat. While the fat and ugly may have the rest of the world, betches, we’ll always have Paris.