Ater all that she’s
endured, can you blame Paris Hilton—socialite, designer, D.J., actress, reality
star, perfumier, probably ageless alien who will leave this planet for another
one when she is done with it—for seeking neutral territory? Page Six is reporting
that Hilton is looking to make Switzerland, a land dreamed up by fairy tales,
her permanent home.
See, Hilton, who is a
sought-after D.J. in the sun-soaked party spots of Europe these days (y’know,
places like Bucharest, Chișinău, rusty old Brno), is dating an Austrian
businessman named Thomas Gross, and together they are looking to settle in
Schwyz, a ritzy mountain town in the German-speaking part of Switzerland.
Apparently Hilton said in an interview with a German-language paper, “I want to
be Swiss,” and has lovingly posted about the country on Instagram.
We support this
decision! Why shouldn’t Paris Hilton move to a sleepy town in the Alps,
population 14,000 or so? Sure, we don’t necessarily encourage Americans to move
to a “tax haven,” as Page Six calls it, because Paris Hilton’s tax dollars
should be helping to repair our crumbling bridges, roads, foam cannons, and
roller-discos here at home, but otherwise? Paris Hilton moving to the Swiss
Alps sounds rather idyllic.
Just think of being on
a brisk mountain hike, there in the verdant mountains, and walking into a
clearing, and there, hauling a milk pail, hair in Heidi plaits, singing a
German working song, is Paris Hilton. Doesn’t that sound nice? “Guten Tag” she
says in her familiar nasal purr, giving you a genuine smile before tromping off
toward the distant sound of cowbells.
Or, winter in Schwyz.
You and a friend or lover are enjoying the pristine white scenery on skis,
downhill or cross-country. You’ve reached a quiet spot, and have stopped, to
feel the tickle of snowflakes on your noses, to listen to the whispering wind,
to take in all the hush and peace and beauty of this magical place.
Then you hear the swish
of skis and a tinkle of laughter and there is Paris Hilton, arcing toward you,
with rosy cheeks and a bobbed wool hat. “Guten Nachmittag,” she calls, gliding
up to you, then stopping. “Würden Sie etwas whisky mag?” she asks, producing a
little flask from her jacket. So there you stand, the three of you, taking
little pulls, making satisfied sighs, there in the bracing mountain air. Then,
she nods, waves, and skis off. Paris Hilton, gone just as she arrived.
I think that sounds
great. Sure, sure, it won’t all be Swiss pastoral tranquility. Obviously she’ll
still be doing glamorous things, like foam parties in Ibiza and dust parties in
Minsk, and I’d have to imagine that she’ll spend time in New York and Los
Angeles and other American places she likes, like Miami and Waxahatchee. But
she will be based in Switzerland, which seems lovely, doesn’t it? Maybe I just
want to move to Switzerland. I have been looking at a lot of gorgeous pictures
of the landscape while writing this dumb thing.
So. Hm. Actually,
Paris? Do whatever you want. Host as many diamond parties in St. Tropez as you
want, as many cubic zirconia parties as Zagreb will allow. I’m gonna move to
Switzerland, I’m gonna be a milkmaid, I’m gonna be an Alpine St. Bernard with
brandy in a little barrel around my neck. And I can’t wait.
Richard Lawson is a
columnist for Vanity Fair's Hollywood
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