There is an entrance as imposing as the Vatican’s, save for a neon-rainbow welcome mat and a grand, columned foyer in which stands a life-size, stuffed alpaca (a gift from the Kardashians, as it turns out). There are potted plants and cherubic statues. There are palm trees of biblical proportions and a multitiered fountain. It is, admittedly, not a bad place to be stuck, I think to myself as I wander the grounds looking for an alternate means of egress. And here I am, shaking the curlicues of an elaborate wrought-iron gate that had been wide open earlier and wondering how the hell to get out of this gilded paradise. A hush has fallen over Hilton’s stately driveway (where her pink Bentley sits with a flat tire) and over her Italianate mansion (where a neon-pink glow emanates from one entire wing). Even the helicopters overhead have stopped their mosquito whine. The landscapers have packed up and left in a white truck laden with an alarming amount of foliage. The stylists have packed up and left with countless lumpy bags and a large box they’d struggled to fit in their car. The photographer and crew have packed up and left with their sundry equipment. The cerulean sky over Beverly Hills is silvering its way toward nightfall when I find myself trapped at Paris Hilton’s.
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