The French seem to do everything better. They’ve got awesome healthcare, don’t get fat, and have closets full of Chanel. Apparently, they also know how party on the 4th of July—with a city-wide treasure hunt in Paris, called Les Trésors de Paris (the treasures of Paris). The day-long experience leads groups through sets of riddles that take them to destinations that even Paris natives might not know about like secret gardens and historical buildings. Along the way, you get to meet shopkeepers and other participating business owners. If you make it to the secret final location in time, you’re entered into a ballot from which you get the chance to win rad prizes like swank dinners, hotel stays, or special Paris walking tours. The grand prize gains the winner entrée into an annual secret cabaret that’s one of those invite-only events Parisians clamor to get into. Two other awesome things of note: the hunt was organized in part by the city itself (props to the French government), and in part by a company that specializes in making treasure hunts, which might possibly be the raddest job ever. Except of course, working for TheFrisky. [Tresorsdeparis.fr, English translation available by clicking the U.K. flag item at the bottom of the page]

Throughout history, the French have certainly contributed their own interpretation of la femme through fashion and cultural sophistication. Things are about to get way more interesting thanks to a new exhibition at the Centre Pompidou in Paris: elles@centrepompidou features over 500 works of art exclusively by women, taking over most of the huge modern museum. Spanning the early 20th century to the present, the collection divides itself into themes like “The Activist Body” or “A Room of One’s Own,” which uses Virginia Woolf’s manifesto to explore the concept of personal feminine space.

Sometimes Bill Cunningham, the New York Times street fashion photographer, takes pictures of French women, and they always look so damn sexy. Granted, the Times is going to choose the best photos, but somehow French women always manage to look more seductive than the average American woman.

Now, it’s silly to stereotype and say that all French women are sexy, but there are definite cultural differences between French women and American women—that’s undeniable. It also seems unarguable that these differences are responsible for that thing French women seem to have. The thing that makes them seem fashionable and cool and charming.

Even though markets around the world aren’t at their best right now, the Paris haute couture shows will go on! Today was the start of the super high-end fashion event began today, and Karl Lagerfeld’s monochrome designs for Chanel Haute Couture came down the runway. The models wore paper flower hats—there must be a way to DIY this look, right? Take another look after the jump…

As the romance capital of the world, Paris has the authority on many sexy things. After all, they did give the world couture dresses, Catherine Deneuve, and, of course, French kissing. Here are our suggestions for getting down in the city of love.

Mais oui, the two-toned jacket totally works on him. Zut alors! [Givenchy party, Paris, France, 6/24/08]

Have you seen graffiti that’s kind of sweet (even if it is against the law)? Send us a pic at tips@thefrisky.com.

Whoa, The Hills in all its scripted glory, was awesome. It should always be an hour! The show, back for a mini-interim season, started off with Lauren and Whitney headed to Paris to help out Teen Vogue at the Crillon Ball, a fancy-schmancy debutante event for rich socialite kids. Within, like, seconds of landing at Charles de Gaulle Airport, Whitney and Lauren immediately start to slack off on their, you know, jobs by opting to pick up their ball gowns instead of running Teen Vogue errands, while Lauren finds out Brody has managed to find a girlfriend since she left L.A. Seriously, time moves fast in LC’s world. Back in L.A., Spencer is shedding a tear into his beer because Heidi has headed back to the homey, unpretentious Colorado town that managed to spit out her trashtastic, gossip-chasing self, in order to get some breathing room from their sad little relationship.

I met Duke* in Paris. He was actually British, visiting from London, and I was there from New York, sent by the magazine I worked for to cover the fashion shows. My boyfriend back in New York had just broken up with me for the bajillionth time, and I was devastated (as usual). When I met Duke, a blue-eyed scruffster with a gorgeous accent and a mischievous grin, the chemistry was immediate, and somehow I knew that he might provide just the rebound romp to lift me out of Dumpsville.