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Beautiful, naughty, reckless? Yes, hup. HPhere is a story about an American tourist in Paris -*- who complained to a French friend about the Parisian women. "Where," he demanded, "are the real girls of Paris? You know, the ones with the slinky dresses, the high heels, the Brigitte Bardot chests?╟÷and the willing ways? Where are those girls?" "Oh, those girls," the Frenchman said. "They're all in New York." The story, like all stories, is probably an exaggeration, but there is a satisfactory amount of truth in it. The fact is that perhaps no city?╟÷and its inhabitants?╟÷has ever been as misrepresented as has Paris. This propaganda campaign has been going on for centures; the first successful Paris flack was Francois Villon, and he goes back to 1450. As a result of the overwhelming Niagara of songs, poems, plays, novels, symphonies, movies?╟÷and sexy jokes?╟÷all trumpeting the wonders, and wondrous sins, of Paris, the average person has no more idea of what Paris is really like than he has of what the moon is really like; and, as a matter of fact, he may understand the moon even better, since his head isn't stuffed with a lot of nonsense about the moon as it is about Paris. The cause of this endless hurricane of hokum is not hard to discover. Americans, who live in a big country and travel big in their big country, don't often realize that Frenchmen?╟÷and Parisians?╟÷are provincial. A French farmer does not know where Norway is. What's more he doesn't care. He very likely hasn't traveled more than 20 miles from the place where he was born, and won't for all his life. The same thing applies to Paris. There are hundreds of thousands of Parisians?╟÷both men and women?╟÷who have never been out of Paris?╟÷ever. It may be hard to believe, but it is nonetheless true. They can't talk about, or admire, or even love any other city because they don't know any other city. So the deafening tribute to Paris goes on endlessly. Paris in the Spring; Paris in the Fall; Paris, I Love You; naughty, wild, sexy Paris. So the picture emerges: Paris is a city in the ecstatic grip of an interminable orgy. Men and women chase each other up and down the Champs-Elysees, and in the Bois de Boulogne they leap on each other with high, animal cries. Every Parisian man has a mistress of indescribable beauty and poise, but she's a perfect hellcat in the sack. Every Parisian woman has, in addition to the man who is keeping her, a set of Johns who grovel abjectly at her feet for her favors, meanwhile showering her with gifts, mostly costly baubles or clothes, largely gauzy underwear ^r Bikini swim suits. Men, driven by uncontrollable (Continued on page 13) For some Frenchmen?╟÷and tourists too?╟÷the Eiffel Tower is a fitting trademark for all that is beautiful and wonderful about Paris. Not so, writes Sam Boal, who knows Paris as well as he does his own New York. The true trademark?╟÷the nude show girl?╟÷can be seen across the way, photographed at the Lido. For more of the same, in all its colorful glory, turn the page Escapade 7