No matter how many red carpet events you go to, how many young Hollywood lovelies you see spending quality time in a bathroom stall, or B-listers shamelessly throwing themselves all over A-listers in hopes to hooking up and getting a much needed publicity boost… the most memorable moments seem to always happen in “normal” life. Such was the case when I took a trip to the South of France with two of my good friends for this year’s Cannes Film Festival. Victoria, a society princess (cousin of Gemma & Jodie Kidd) from London who’s relocated to New York to continue a music and acting career, and Sanjana, an international It-girl, who runs a luxury marketing company with offices in New York, India, London, and Dubai. She’s launching a line of clothing this year, and so her beaded glam gowns came in handy during some of the festivities. It became a candy shop when she showed up with 4 suitcases overstuffed with chiffon gowns, studded mini skirts, little beaded dresses, sequin bikinis, and fitted jackets- all threads and seams dipped in gold and dyed in bright festive colors. And so it begins...
Tuesday Evening
Nice Airport/Hotel du Cap
Clothes call: James Perse white ribbed tank top, Marni gray cashmere wrap sweater, black Rachel Pally stretch pants, gray vintage Pirate-style boots
It’s just my luck that my T-Mobile Sidekick’s SIM card stops working a day before I leave, so without having a Verizon international plan on my other cell phone, I figure I’ll just rent a cell phone while there. BIG MISTAKE. I got to Nice airport and went to the first booth I saw, BV Worldcall’s thecellphonecie.com. The plan sounded legit, 5 euro a day, plus 1.99 euro per minute for outgoing calls to the US. All worldwide incoming calls were free. Fine, I’ll use just for emergencies. They said they’d e-mail the invoice with details on all calls. 26 minutes is exactly how long I spent on the phone in the entire WEEK I was there, mostly incoming calls. When I got back to the states I (not surprisingly) received no invoice, just one big fat charge on my credit card for around $800. At least it wasn’t as bad as Sanjana, who was charged $1300. Want more? Try calling their “customer service” number- it’s been disconnected. It seems ripping off tourists with rental phones is somewhat as a tradition, so don’t say LuxE didn’t warn you. Anyway, when I landed in the early evening on a Tuesday, Victoria was already there. She called to tell me to meet her at the uber-famous Hotel du Cap/Eden Roc resort. You know- the one Uma, Angelina, Madonna, and Penelope are always photographed sunbathing at. Even though it’s a 25 minute ride north of the festival, this is the place to come for brunch and after-midnight cocktails. She tells me she’s waiting for a ride in from Alex Von Furstenberg’s boat (who’s borrowing it from his mom, Diane) that’s currently docked off the hotel. I hop in a taxi and despite a mere 15 minute ride the fare comes to $95. We’ve got a villa for the week in Golfe Juan, which is a little town halfway between the Hotel du Cap in Antibes and the festival in Cannes. Victoria, thank God, speaks French. Me? Sure I took it in high school, so at least I was able to say 'bonjour' and 'au revoir'!
Tuesday Late Night
Nikki Beach/Hotel du Cap
Clothes Call: Emanuel Ungaro chiffon printed dress
Sanjana was coming the next day, so it’s just Victoria and I the first night. At Nikki Beach Club, Victoria bumps into two male friends from London: one, a publicist and the other, well, I’m not quite sure what his official title is but he’s basically famous for bedding and causing cat fights between dozens of supermodels, politicians, European royalty and Hollywood elite. You can always count on a bisexual society-whore to bridge gaps between industries and families worldwide. He was absolutely to-die-for, with an undeniable charm. But, much like a chocolate caramel molten cake oozing with ice cream: sinfully sweet and ultimately terrible for you. Nonetheless, the image made me hungry and it was suggested we all go back to the Hotel du Cap for a nightcap. Unlike New York where anything goes and everything (and everyone) is for sale at any hour, the only fine dining at the Champs-Elysées’ finest hotel consisted of dried salted green peas and martinis. Where’s all the fine French cuisine? This time of night, the lobby was filled with older studio honchos with pretty young mute Versace mannequins on their arms. Occasionally, an A-lister would sweep through, making rounds to every table to be reminded how fabulous her Gunner Peterson-perfected body looked in her Alaia gown (on loan, dahling). We sat around, sipping dry martinis and begging our 147 year-old waiter for some real food. Topic of conversation: the sex lives of Benicio del Torro, Val Kilmer, and Tom Cruise (which I would rather not get into in fear of being struck down by Scientology gods). Discussion of the intimate details of the Tom in question gave me such a weak stomach that I demand we all drive to the town of Antibes to this local greasy hamburger place I remembered. So, on a rainy night, we end up sitting at a smoky bar wearing $140,000 worth of clothing between the four of us. Greasy cheeseburgers and fries (which I blonde-ly order as ‘French fries, please’), beer and martinis. Ahhh yes, French delicacy at its finest.
Wednesday Afternoon
Golfe Juan
Clothes Call: Nanette Lepore deep v-neck printed sundress, Christian Louboutin wedges
We’re awoken that afternoon with Sanjana, who had just landed and picked up the rental car. For a while we sit around the complex’s pool catching up, until Victoria leaves to meet up with some friends. Sanjana and I decide to go out and get some groceries for the villa. By the time we leave it’s in the evening, and I guess France for Dummies had neglected to mention that everything seems to close around 5 (or 3 on Sundays). Our only option at this point was to hit a local gas station convenience store. Dressed in our fabulous resort collection wear I was introduced to the not-so-fabulous rental car.
“I wanted a smaller car,” Sanjana says, starting the Opal Astra. Suddenly, we are jolted forward, almost hitting the concrete wall in front of us. “But something is wrong with this.”
For half a mile I’m hearing the transmission scream for a shift, revving up until I fear the damn thing is going to fall out in the middle of the narrow little road.
“Ummm, Sanjana? Do you know how to drive stick?”
“My uncle taught me when I was 14. I’ve driven the Range Rover around Manhattan a few times too.”
1.8 miles and three stall-outs later, we finally thought we had the Astra stick shift driving system down pat: I would say “shift” every time I heard the transmission rev up and Sanjana would shift.
This rhythm continues until we pull into a gas station. Walking in, we explode in giggles, mostly from relief.
“Mademoiselle!!!!” Shouts a man back at the pumps, interrupting our laughter.
Walking past one too many construction sites in New York City we both became immune to hearing calls from guys, so of course we (somewhat vainly) just blow it off. It wasn’t until we saw the frightened store clerk rush out that we finally got it in our heads to turn around: THE CAR WAS ROLLING BACK INTO THE STREET! Of course the whole time we were driving there and stalling out we were on the typical narrow one-lane French roads. Our luck, the gas station happened to be located on one of France’s only two-lane highways- and the Astra was headed straight for it! Sanjana fumbles for the keys and I grab the door handle.
“Open it!” I say, clutching onto the moving car.
“I did!!!” She’s frantically clicking the opener. “It’s not working!!!”
Out of nowhere, the ignored gas pumper turns into something all-mighty and jumps behind the car, allowing Sanjana time to stick the key in the door and jump in. Since I tend to giggle when I get scared, I’m hysterically laughing as Sanjana is taking a second for her stomach to get out of her throat.
“Whoaaaa,” smiles the 16 year old clerk in broken English. “Break?”
Hahaha, funny. Yes, we’re Americans; okay people, the show’s over.
Once inside we drop 65 euro on chocolate biscuits, Lion bars, Pringles, Fanta, and coconut cookies. Still searching for my fine French cuisine…
Wednesday Night
Hotel Carlton/Palm Beach Club
Clothes Call: Sanjana Couture lilac silk strapless dress with sheer beaded trim, Sergio Rossi crystal stiletto sandals
At 7PM we meet up with Victoria in Cannes to visit Paris Hilton at her hotel, The Carlton. Yup, they love her everywhere now. The posh Carlton has covered their entire entrance hall in 25 foot posters of Paris. You just gotta love those studio heads who insist on showing a full 4 feet of bellybutton.
Later, I get a text from a director friend who’s in town for his premiere. “Let’s do dinner.” Dear god, does this mean fine dining? Before I can even think tender meat, wine and truffles I’m being thrown into a car- off to the Sin City after-party. I know you want to read about the schmoozing and how glamorous everyone looked. But I had one thing on my mind and that was food. You have to understand I had only 2 Lion bars all day long, and I am not an actress so I like to eat. I blow off saying hi to Brittany Murphy- “You’ll be at Amfar tomorrow, right?”- for some baby shrimp puffs and a glass of champagne. The party was beautiful, though. And unlike your typical after-party in the States, everyone takes glam to the max here. Exquisite beaded gowns, flawless makeup, and pinned up glamour-puss hair. Cannes is truly one of the most fabulous environments you can be in. Black was the ruling color of the night, with Ms Murphy in a stunning sheer beaded Versace number, Selma Hayek in a ruffled cocktail dress, and Jessica Alba in a strapless, sateen insert gown. The party continued for hours with guests like Morgan Freeman, Mickey Rourke, and Benicio del Torro. When it started to die down we hopped in a producer friend’s car and drove down the strip about ½ a mile to where all the action was going on.
Cannes is an entirely different feel than US cities. Everyone is there to live large, network, and love life. Plus, European cities in general are usually more laid back and friendly. As you walk down the street, people just come up to you and start conversations, they invite you to sit down at their table, they speak about travel, and oh yeah, they just happen to be a Prince. Some you know, some you may have met once, and some just want to network. So when we ran into three stallions of men we didn’t hesitate to join them for a drink at an exclusive outdoor lounge a level above the street. We should have known by the way they were seated that something was up: the more attractive, older, and confident man was sitting in the middle wearing a dark suit with his neck-length hair slicked back. His two younger protégées were sitting on either side of him looking eager, wearing matching gray shirts and black pants. Second clue: the only things they knew how to say in English was, “Hello” and “Do you want a drink?” For a minute it’s almost comical as we all just sit there and look at each other. When they start talking, Victoria becomes our translator. However, a few seconds into the conversation Victoria stops talking and looks like she just witnessed a murder.
“Let’s go!” She mouths.
Sanjana and I look at each other, “But they’re so cute!”
“Gigolos!” Victoria whispers.
“Huh?”
“They’re gigolos!!!!!”
We tense up, grabbing onto each other’s hands. Somehow in the moment, the word ‘Gigolo’ sounded as scary as ‘serial rapist’.
“Get up slow….. where’s the door? Okay GO GO GO! Grab your couture and run!!!!!”
We dart out, with the guys shouting behind us. The busboys are all laughing, and we would probably be too if we didn’t have the Gigolo Unit chasing after us. The restaurant was on the second floor, so instead of getting trapped in the elevator, we took the side staircase, which lead directly outside.
The three of us burst through the door onto the main street like we had just escaped from jail, rounded the corner, and ran smack into a brick wall of 12-pack abs that is Tyson Beckford.
“Whoa ladies, where you’all headed?”
Sanjana and I knew him from New York. He says he’s going to find Harry Cipriani’s yacht that’s docked “somewhere around here we just have to walk.” Nothing makes you feel safer than Mr. Beckford as your escort.
Thursday Afternoon
Cannes Strip
Clothes call: Little Joe slip dress, Juicy Couture bikini, woven espadrilles I purchased from a local street boutique
In the morning we decide to take the train to Cannes instead of the 15 minute car ride from the villa. We each have people we need to meet up with, so we decide to all go our separate ways for the day and meet up later. My first stop is the Hotel Carlton where I’m meeting up with my friend Evelyn, who produces the Golden Movie Trailer Awards in LA. When I get there hundreds of people are lined up the grass lawn and driveway of the hotel, clutching cameras and posters and blocking the entrance. A squad of police and security vans line the streets. The crowd grows as I make my way through, past the main gate, on my way in. Before I walk in I turn around to look at the people all piled against barricades who are desperately looking at anyone and everyone that walks in and out of the hotel. So this is what it feels like to be J Lo, huh? People just staring at you like an animal at the zoo. I wonder who all the fuss is for: Paris had already left and gone up to the city of Paris and Tyson was staying here but he’s not that famous… so who the hell is here? I look up to see if Michael Jackson's dangling a baby out of the window again. Nothing.
I’m walking through the lobby when I run into Jo, the tough-as-nails publicist for the Olsen twins. Victoria had just gotten into a catfight with her over some British society scandal the night before. “They’re going to AmFar,” she informs me. Soon after, the two little peanuts breeze through the lobby and, before you can say Uncle Jesse, are ushered into a black van that’s parked so close to the front entrance that it’s practically inside the hotel. As their idols drive away before their faces, the fans don’t even give the van a second look. Now that’s what I call a slick get-away.
I meet up with Evelyn, who I’m picking up my AmFar tickets from. We spend the next hour hitting movie suites set up to promote or sell films. On my way out Evelyn hands me passes to some movie screenings and to the American Pavilion, which is the main building where all the Hollywood industry-ites conglomerate.
After a quick tea with a few friends from London and Spain I attempt to rush back to the train station. A few wrong turns later I realize I’m lost in the narrow city streets and don’t know any French. I dig through my bag to get my “emergency use only” phone and call my little sister, who is taking French in high school.
“How do you say train station??!!!”
It’s an hour past our meeting time and I cannot get a hold of Sanjana. We are supposed to be back getting ready for the biggest event of Cannes: AmFar Charity Auction, where only a couple hundred industry VIPs are selected to dine and bid on goods auctioned off by celebrities to benefit AIDS research. I think you can also buy tickets for like $3500 a pop or something ridiculas like that. I am (not surprisingly) starving and am forced to order a French baguette from a street vendor while I wait. The French boys around the sandwich stand are all very flirtatious and eager to help tell me what’s in each roll. Finally, Sanjana comes rushing down the road and we hop on the train, which with our luck just happens to be headed in the wrong direction. Eventually we straighten it out and head back to the house for some serious primping.
Thursday Evening
Mougins
Clothes call: Sanjana Couture aqua gown with chiffon fishtail train, silver Jimmy Choo stiletto sandals
AmFar: The most glamorous event of the film festival. It’s Elizabeth Tayor’s charity event for AIDS, and every year Hollywood’s diamond list, draped in couture, comes for a seated dinner while a live auction goes off onstage for only 250 or so invited guests. What they don’t mention is how the second biggest party of the year (behind Vanity Fair’s Oscar party) is buried in the mountains 35 minutes from Cannes in a little town called Mougins. Getting to it was no easy task, especially being incapable of driving this possessed auto, especially in 5 inch Jimmy Choo’s.
Much like at award shows, there are several red carpets. The first is for C-list press who get the “honor” of photographing celebrities as they step out of their cars, onto the red carpet. You’ll find many of The Sun-esque crotch shots originating here. Then B-list press: as you step onto the red carpet, you might still have a publicist telling you what not to say or an assistant checking to make sure no hairs are out of place. Finally, the main attraction: the A-list press, where you stand solo on the carpet in front of the AmFar board before walking in. The ride wouldn’t be so bad in the back of a chauffeured driven Mercedes paid for by Harvey Weinstein (a la Liza Minelli, Jessica Alba, and Sharon Stone), but don’t forget we’re riding around in an Opal Astra, and we can’t drive stick. So, pulling up in our demon car, once again Sanjana yanks up on the emergency break. As I open the door, the car juts forward and runs over the valet man. I am not kidding. When things can’t possibly get any worse, Sanjana tries to regain control of the car, causing it to make a direct beeline towards the 120+ wall of paparazzi. Oh my god running down paparazzi? This car must be possessed by Russell Crowe. This car is Sean Penn circa the Madonna years. Sanjana, still half inside the car, slams on the breaks, and of course the paparazzi are just eating this up- snapping away as the valet man recovers to his feet, I jump out, and Sanjana’s lower body is somehow hanging out of the car.
“Ooohhh, let us see the back of your dress!” they call out to me. So, while I’m happily posing pretending everything is cool, Sanjana steps out disheveled and making sure the valet is okay. We’re both shaking and laughing hysterically. Now that our “grand entrance” has been made, it’s time to dart past Asia Argento and Brittany Murphy on the red carpet, since all we want to do at this point is have a glass of French wine to calm our nerves. Things inside went much smoother. The environment seemed relaxed (except for Sharon Stone, who felt the need to have 6 surrounding bodyguards at this invite-only industry VIP event) and everyone seemed at ease. After all, the South of France is a vacation spot, even if you’re doing 20 hours of press each day for your movie. Tensions seemed to fade away, as Milla Jovovich ran around getting pictures of herself with her favorite celebrities, teeny-tiny Brittany Murphy was always standing on the bathroom line, and Jessica Alba showed she was still down-to-earth by flubbing her lines onstage from fear of public speaking. Schmoozing was in full swing that night in a small packed room that also included Benecio del Torro, Clive Owen, Mary Kate & Ashley Olsen, Kenneth Cole, Liza Minnelli, Chris Tucker, Roman Polanski, Rose McGowan, Mickey Rourke, Penelope Cruz, Paz Vega, David Furnish (sans Elton John), Petrina Khashoggi (Victoria’s half-sister), Carine Roitfeld, and Ivana Trump. Bumping into Benecio I reminisce from the other night, running into a socialite who claimed he was a bore in bed. Knowing the truth behind his hotness I smile, kiss-kiss on the cheek, and move on. The dinner was absolutely exquisite! From the steak salad appetizer to the main course and dessert, I finally got the fine dining I had been waiting for.
With the party ending early, we go back to Cannes for Naomi Campbell’s white and gold party. It’s a beautiful bash. I meet up with some friends from New York who are going to Monaco the next day to the Grand Prix.
“The boat leaves at 9,” they inform me. “So make sure you’re at the dock.”
Elton John was performing and my friend Sharangati was opening up the show, so we were definitely all set to go.
Friday morning
Golf Juan Villa
Clothes call: Black knit jersey dress, orange beaded Sanjana bikini top, Havianas flip flops
As expected, the alarm on the rented cell phone doesn’t work and we end up missing the boat to Monaco. Victoria leaves for the airport to go back to London, and Sanjana and I decide we’d attempt to drive the 45 minutes up to the Grand Prix. Within the first ten minutes we get lost and the car starts acting up. It’s not just the shifting, now it’s just starting to do random things like all of a sudden the windshield wipers would come on or the radio would start blasting. By now we’re convinced this car is a rejected lemon that became possessed by the French version of Christine. We decide rather than take it up through the narrow winding mountains that Princess Grace died on, we’d better go to the car rental place and trade it in for something that works. We’re given the option of a SmartCar or another Opal, this time a mini-van/mini-SUV looking thing. With the SmartCar, the rental lady is excitedly telling us how we can park the car sideways or front-to-back in most parking spaces, since its width is almost the same as its length. What is this, Ashton friggin’ Kutcher in Just Married? Do I look like I care about the two ways to park this thing?
Yeah, I think I’ve driven something similar to this before, except I was six and it was a battery powered hot pink Barbie Wheels. I may as well sit in a motorcycle sidecar!
“It’ll just be for a while, just until we get this other car in.”
Forget it, we’ll go with the Opal and save Monaco for next year. We spend the day shopping and getting the car trapped in an underground parking garage (don’t ask). That night, after our friends call us screaming how good the Grand Prix will be that weekend, we decide to sulk at the Dolce & Gabbana party- which was basically all the same Amfar crowd as the previous night.
Saturday & Sunday
Antibes & Cannes
Clothes Call: Maroon beaded jersey dress, Christian Louboutin espadrilles
The festival is pretty much over at this point, and we decide to stroll around Antibes on Saturday and the city of Cannes on Sunday. On Sunday we hike up this huge hill, following the sounds of church bells. When we finally get to the top we have an amazing view of the festival, the town, and the ocean. A very old church sits at the top and people are starting to come out of Sunday services. Up there it was like being in a different world. You could look down and see the laid back hustle & bustle of everyday life in France... the little bread shops, the kids in the streets, the smiles and laughter of the French village people that take life a whole lot less serious than us Americans. Standing up there, you just realize how big the world is, how many different people are on it, and how easy it is to forget that each day passes us by in this little bit of time on earth we’re given. I climbed a little rock wall that stood in front of the church and inhaled the fresh air, feeling like Buddah himself had touched down and given me some new wisdom; the golden sunshine on my skin. The church bells sounded again, signifying the end of services. And then, almost as if the gods above were orchestrating my embarrassment, the very kind church-going people flooded out just in time to see a gust of wind swoop my dress over my head, making Marilyn Monroe’s street grate moment look G-rated. The last thing remember is the terrified look of a father who was walking with his very young children. Clearly, France had seen enough of me and it was time I return home.