My first influencer trip or: How much it costs that even I have no words left

I was in Paris. During Fashion Week. First in the front row. I have experienced the fashion world up close and was able to experience the “upper class” atmosphere on this occasion. For 24 hours I was surrounded by models, influencers and everyone else involved in this industry. It was impressive, surprising and above all: tiring.

Exhausting because I, whose flow of words would otherwise sometimes have to be aggressively interrupted, had to struggle for words. Not because my conversation partners did not let me speak, but more because I did not know what to say.

During lunch with the reigning Miss Poland, a model who commutes between metropolises, an older influencer (yes, they exist) and me, there is no real conversation. Everyone only talks about themselves, no one asks about it. The silence between one monologue and the next is almost unbearable. Don’t get me wrong, silence isn’t something I can’t stand. However, in my opinion, there are different kinds of silence – and this was not the fulfilling kind of silence, but rather the kind of silence that needs to be filled as quickly as possible.

As I’m about to grab some of the salmon being served, the person sitting next to me almost casually notes that she only eats once a day. And yet no one eats dessert when we later have to get dressed to look beautiful during the fashion show. I like desserts.

A few hours later I sit obediently in the front row of the show and let the impressions wash over me. The more striking the better, seems to be the motto: whether the apparently haphazardly thrown together garments result in a harmonious, aesthetically pleasing outfit, was secondary It’s a matter of taste.

After the show the taxi is waiting for us. What sounds glamorous is simply stupid in practice. Where the metro would have taken a maximum of half an hour between the event location and the aftershow party, the taxi ride takes over an hour. It’s not surprising that taxis in a city like Paris don’t make much progress at busy times like Fashion Week. Luckily there are some female journalists in the taxi, I think. After this fateful journey through hell, I have a more nuanced view of my professional colleagues: because they too can easily talk about themselves for hours.

When I arrive at the after-show party, I realize with regret that I would have been better off filling my stomach with lunch. The “food” is served to us in such small bites that I still hope to the end that something will be added. At this point, credit goes to the extremely friendly and even more patient waiters, who answered the same questions about the same offering round after round with their silver trays. “Yes, the snack contains gluten.”

Hours pass until the man whose show we are celebrating shows up at this party. Hours that I have to fill with chatting about trivial things. For example, there is now the option for a business channel on WhatsApp: “Just like Instagram, great, right?” Meanwhile, the DJ continues to spin her set list and is all alone because no one wants to dance – even the Cüpli doesn’t help. A sad image for someone who usually applauds female disc jockeys very loudly.

When I asked the fashion designer my questions shortly before midnight, I was amazed by his answers. So amazed that the interview is never written down, let alone published. What he has to say about himself and the collection just presented is even more irrelevant than anything else I hear that day. When I arrive at the admittedly beautiful hotel, I fall into bed exhausted from social exhaustion.