Our little heiress is growing up. Esquire got an exclusive tour of Paris Hilton's mini-mansion - pets, Bentleys, and all. Don't miss even more photos of Paris's home - including a few of the princess of pink herself - here at Esquire.com.
The tour begins, cordially enough, in the drawing room of her house. There are pictures, images, likenesses everywhere. Many are of Paris herself - only the hottest justify display. Many are of Paris and her friends. Paris and Mariah. Paris and Jessica. Paris and Carmen. Paris and Fergie. Paris and Nicole and Nicky, each of them in its own fun frame.
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"My house is kind of like a reflection of my life and my accomplishments and what I've done," Paris says in her serious voice. "And I've done it all on my own. When my parents and my grandfather came over for the first time, I was so proud. It just feels good to like walk around and be like ... I earned all this, you know? I see some of my friends I grew up with from rich families. Their parents spoiled them and they never made them work and just give them an allowance. And now they're like 30 and still living off the parents, having to ask for everything, being on a budget. It's nice to feel accomplished and independent. I don't have to depend on anyone but myself."
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It was here, in the living room, where Paris spoke about the reckless driving arrest that led to her infamous incarceration: "It wasn't even a DUI, that was not why I was in jail. That's why I was charged with reckless driving. It was literally three sips of a margarita at dinner after I had just shot my music video - I hadn't really eaten anything all day and I showed up to the dinner late because I was shooting the music video. And then, like two blocks away from In-N-Out burger, is where I got pulled over. I just thought it was really unfair."
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The night table in Paris's room, where you can find even more photos of her with her BFFs.
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At nighttime the master bedroom is cold and breezy, probably in the low fifties, the same as outside. Crossing the threshold feels a little like passing the invisible line in a department store that marks the perfume department; a mélange of sweet and musky scents prevails. A pair of floor fans are whirring. The doors to the papal-like balcony, overlooking the pool and the canyon beyond, are flung open wide. Down below, you can see the San Fernando Valley, illuminated by the constellations of light bulbs that make suburbia.
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Paris's dogs Marilyn Monroe (blonde) and Prince Baby Bear romp with Princess Pigelette, her miniature pet pig. Tinkerbell, the famous Chihuahua, now lives fifteen minutes away with Paris's parents in Bel Air: "Tinkerbell can't be here," Paris explains. "She's so jealous of all these dogs. But she comes over all the time and stays with me."
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Before we went to lunch at the Ivy, Paris felt as if her car was too dirty to drive, so she hosed it off herself. On the way home out of the restaurant, we were surrounded by paparazzi. A chase ensued through Beverly Hills: She set her jaw, blared Madonna's "Like a Virgin," and gunned the throaty blue Bentley convertible, weaving through traffic, making it into a little game. There was no anger evident; it was more like sport.
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