Paris: The Memoir(83)
In 2011, I turned thirty. It was a new era for social media as an art form. Twitter bubbled up, followed by Instagram, and I was in the first wave of users. I saw it as an opportunity to expand my global brand. Along with the potential to build my own interests, I looked for opportunities to lift up people and causes I believed in.
I tried on a new reality series with Mom—The World According to Paris—some of which was shot during my community-service hours from a minor possession bust. No big story there, just a small amount of weed, which is legal now and should have been legal then—especially for people with PTSD—but it wasn’t legal then, so it was a fair shake. I put in my 200 hours of service, and then we were having so much fun I put in another 350 hours. I was happy that we were able to direct some attention to deserving organizations serving the homeless in LA.
The show was fun, and Mom was great. Traveling so dominated my life, I decided to do a Passport Collection of fragrances—Paris, South Beach, Tokyo, St. Moritz—and rolled around the world promoting them. I sponsored a motorcycle team in Madrid and walked at Brazil Fashion Week with Lady Gaga’s “Born This Way” booming in the background. I had lots of fun posting about my travels on Twitter until I discovered that when you post about all the exciting places you’re going, people know you’re not home, and they rob you.
I was stunned to find out that a group of high school students later known as the “Bling Ring” had entered my home on several occasions while I was gone, taking jewelry, shoes, clothes, cash, and whatever else they wanted. I know, I know—it’s hard to feel sorry for someone whose closet is so overflowing, they don’t immediately notice a million dollars’ worth of missing stuff, but when I was finally home long enough to realize what had happened, I felt violated and angry.
I’d worked so hard for my space. I was so exhausted when I came home. This was supposed to be my sanctuary. It took me a long time to feel safe there again, but I couldn’t contemplate the thought of moving. I was done running away. And anyway, this house was so special. When Sofia Coppola was shooting The Bling Ring, she asked me if she could shoot here.
“There’s no way to re-create it,” she said. “It has to be the real thing.”
It was healing, in a way, to turn what had happened into a great piece of art. I love Emma Watson and the entire cast. The crew was respectful of the fact that this was a real home where a real person lived her life.
My life, my business, and my brand were all about loving your look “hot,” living in gorgeous houses with pretty things and adorable pets, and hanging with girls who know how to have fun. I came of age during the most turbulent pop culture period since Cleopatra. While it was happening, it all felt like fast-forward. Runways, parties, appearances, skiing, skydiving, cuddly pets, beautiful people, iconic photo shoots, sisterhood, business, fragrances, family, fans, nightclubs, lashes, bags, redefining femininity, creating music, placing beauty in the eye of the beholder, making art an experience and experiencing art as a way of life—it’s a lot. I know. I’m okay with extra.
We transformed what it means to be famous, the Little Hiltons and me. More important, we transformed what it means to be yourself.
20
Amnesia is where I go to forget. Whatever you’re trying to leave behind, trust me, it’s no match for the indescribable energy of this arena-sized club that sits at the center of Ibiza, an island in the Mediterranean Sea somewhere between Spain and North Africa.
I first heard of this place when I was fifteen, living with my family at the Waldorf. I begged my dad to let me go there, but he talked to the concierge, and the concierge said, “No, no, no. Not Ibiza. This is a notorious party island. This is not a place for good girls to go.”
So, no Ibiza for me until I was old enough and had made enough money to get there on my own.
In 2006 I organized an epic girl trip for myself, Caroline D’Amore, and Kim Kardashian. We all stayed in a teepee behind my friend Jade Jagger’s house. It was very bohemian and cool. Kim was not much of a clubber in general, and neither of us had ever experienced anything like Amnesia. The super clubs don’t open until bars around the island perimeter are ready to close, so the party doesn’t even get started until 3:00 a.m. Most people are there to dance and enjoy the music, not drink. Kim and I were smart and looked out for each other. Reliable backup is an essential element of the girlfriend trip. The nonstop music is too loud to hear someone calling out, so you collect a nice crew of trusted party pals and keep eyes on each other.
Production values at Amnesia were off the chain. Insane sound systems. Epic laser light shows beaming across the crowd. Music pulsing a particular kind of house style—the Balearic beat, a unique sound that was born in those islands. We were up in a VIP area with an amazing view of the booth where the DJ was operating an elaborate array of decks and mixers. This was the first time I really paid attention to what the DJ was doing and saw how powerful it was. Killing it like a rock star, he conducted the whole room, thousands of people in the palm of his hand.
And then they fired up the foam cannons.
There’s a dress code—shorts, T-shirts, and flip-flops were not allowed—but most people had swimsuits under their clothes. I pulled my cocktail dress off, tied it around my waist, and kept dancing in my bikini.
“Paris! Ven aqui!” The foam girls waved me over to the railing.