A night at the Opera.

Posted on by
Reply

We were late to the Opera.

Ordinarily, tardiness of any sort makes my teeth itch, but…it was the Opera. I’m still recovering from years of opera training, and have limited interest in it unless someone I know is singing; as such, I was not unduly perturbed that we were missing some of the opening act. That, and it was Dr. Boyfriend’s last day in France, and I was not convinced that I wanted to share him with the outside world at all.

However.

Despite knowing that the event we were scheduled to see was a benefit fundraiser of some sort, we failed to clock that this meant it was An Occasion, and showed up looking rather urchin-like by comparison with the rest of the attendees. Tidy, yes; in cocktail dresses and tails, no. Fortunately, all this really amounted to is that nobody paid us any mind, and we were able to observe the floorshow undisturbed. And oh, what a mix. There were winsome young ladies in electric blue silk ballgowns that would make Cinderalla weep; meticulously arranged older men in round horn spectacles and bow ties; at least one very convincing Anna Wintour doppelganger; and numerous dignified older ladies with perfect coiffures and more sequins than you could shake a stick at (and I have shaken many a stick in my time).

And then, there was Madame Chairman.

I’d noticed her lurking about the lobby as we slunk in; a perfect replica of Donatella Versace, she had a questionable bleach job on her long tresses, and a rather glorious long, pleated gold dress (think the bastard lovechild of Versace Couture and Yohji Yamamoto). To be entirely honest, when I spotted her, I thought she was drunk, so enthusiastic and loose were her gesticulations to the ushers (and so utterly incomprehensible was her speech). She had a sparkly wrap of some variety, and some utterly spectacular (by which I mean absolutely gigantic) rhinestone chandelier earrings. In short, she was FABULOUS. And, when she finally went in to the performance, she occupied the center box–typically reserved for patrons. As we had a direct view of that area from our own box, this was wonderful for me; I could have watched her all night.

Of course, my interest at the beginning of the night was nothing when compared to my fascination at the beginning of the second act, when it was revealed that she was, indeed, the great patroness of this event, and as such it was her honor to run the charity raffle. Her presence on stage was so strangely awkward that it almost managed to come right out the other side and straight back to awesome…but not quite. This gilded bird, who is clearly used to having the undivided attention of many full rooms, did not appear to know how to react to a room full of, let’s face it, stuffy society types who were not particularly interested in her brand of sparkles. It was like watching Paris Hilton try to take on the Junior League.

However, she gave it her all, and after fifteen painful minutes, all the prizes were distributed and we returned to our regularly scheduled programming. For a while, I felt painfully uncomfortable on her behalf; I hate speaking in front of people, and have a lot of empathy for those who evidently share my discomfort. But upon reflection, I realized that there was no point in feeling that way–if anything, I should be completely in awe of her, as she clearly, completely, Did Not Give A Shit. It was her party, and she was going to wear whatever insane dress she wanted, and say whatever crazy stuff she wanted, and raise her shiny, gold freak flag as high as she wanted to. And all the people looking at her derisively were going to sit there and take it, because they are the ones who paid good money to be part of her event.

(They are also the ones who cheerfully elbowed each other out of the way in the mad rush to purchase plates of ham and cheese rolls at intermission, but that’s another story.)

Would that we all had such conviction.

So here’s to Madame Chairman! Here’s to freak flags everywhere! And here is to being, occasionally, just a little bit late for your scheduled event; you never know what you’ll get to see instead.

That other Riviera town.

Posted on by
Reply

It’s three days until the 65th annual Cannes Film Festival, and the town has already begun to consume itself.

There’s really no other way to describe it; this otherwise lovely seaside town, blessed with soft sand beaches and a perfect breeze off the water, has started tearing itself apart in preparation for the upcoming festivities. The beach is being bulldozed in favor of pop-up dance floors, the museums closed (self-defense, I’d wager), the facades of the glorious old hotels obscured by twenty-foot posters decrying upcoming would-be blockbusters (the appearance of G. I. Joe 2 on the corner of one of the oldest hotels on the strip is a personal favorite), and there are hordes of self-satisfied Industry People already walking the streets in their sherbert-colored polo shirts (collars popped, of course), shouting into their iPhones about upcoming meetings with “Bob. Bobby. DeNiro? He’s president of the festival this year; what, didn’t he want to talk about that script that got optioned?”

I kid you not.

Mercifully, the hoopla was not a huge impediment to our agenda–or lack thereof. We’d breezed into town with a loose plan to see if we could catch some of the Cannes Independent Film Festival (not to be confused with the festival bulldozing the town), but by the time we arrived on Friday, they’d not yet gotten around to either posting a schedule on their website or informing the tourism office of any of their plans (please note that the festival started on Thursday), and thus we were unable to partake of its bounty.  However, attending the festival was only part of our plan; equally exciting to us was the fact that we’d somehow managed to score a room at one of the ritziest hotels on the beach (the Carlton), star of the Hitchcock classic, To Catch a Thief. It’s about to shut down for two years of renovation, so we were rather chuffed to get to spend a little time in this venerable institution.

Fun fact: the Carlton has named many of its suites after Cannes luminaries, including: Sean Penn, Roman Polanski, Isabelle Adjani, Sophie Marceau, Sharon Stone (!), and Dirk Bogarde (!!). It also has a yellow and green patterned carpet that I personally find highly questionable and an exquisite patio upon which to eat breakfast. We’re still trying to figure out what exactly they plan to renovate, as (carpet aside), it’s really exquisitely lovely.

With that as a home base, it was much easier to let the little inconveniences roll off our backs–something about being ever-so-slightly stunned that you are where you are makes dodging lorries and the dulcet tones of loud power tools a bit more pleasant. And really: Cannes does pleasant exceptionally well. Pleasant is its bread and butter. It’s a seaside resort town–it’s entire raison d’etre is glitter, glamour, sunshine, and fun. It could be cloying, but there’s just something about this bubbly, pretty party girl of a town that just defies dislike.

The Carlton opted to back Sasha Baron-Cohen's new film, The Dictator.

Plus, even in the throes of abject chaos, Cannes is still a pretty delicious place to go for a day–it’s sunny, it’s gorgeous, and people really do wear the most amazing shoes. However the longer you’re there, the more absurd it all seems. When you’re standing knee-deep in the Mediterranean ocean–so clear you can see your breath reflected in it–watching the mountains demonstrate why they call it the Cote d’Azur as the sun slips lazily behind them, the floorshow on the promenade becomes completely laughable. What are they hoping to build that could ever compare with something so simple, so natural, so beautiful?

I suppose that’s what they mean by the magic of the movies.

File under: Unexpected.

Posted on by
1

In a moderately unexpected turn of events (and I say “moderately” only because one never really knows what random shenanigans will go down when Dr. Boyfriend is around), we spent yesterday sauntering around Monaco. As you do.

We’d been lured to the principality by the Monte Carlo Philharmonic; the orchestra was scheduled to play a matinee with some flautist of note, and we thought it would be worth catching. And so, we jumped on the train and made the thirty minute journey, only to discover that not only was the entire town closed in honor of Sunday, but it had been transformed into a labyrinth of bollards and temporary walls, rendering maps as we know them largely useless: you see, it’s Grand Prix season, which means that for the next three weeks, the typically picturesque town is going to be trying out a new look comprised solely of bleachers and safety barriers. Practical, but not really a good look for Spring.

Baffled by all these metallic additions, it took us a while to locate the Opera (which we eventually found inside the Grand Casino), and when we finally did, we discovered the ticket office was closed. Rather than let that trouble us, we decided to wait it out in the most civilized fashion possible: we retired to the bar at the Hotel de Paris for expensive cocktails and extensive people-watching.

And oh, the assembled crowd did not disappoint! Well-represented was every cliche you can imagine–the tiny french businessman with the tattersall suit and the supermodel girlfriend; the endless parade of women in tottering, sky-high heels; the ruddy-faced men in coral polo shirts with more hair on their arms than their heads, speaking loudly on their blackberries. It was absolute magic–everything I’d hoped Monte Carlo would be.

After finishing our drinks, we wobbled back to the casino, and decided to try our luck at the tables–because, really, if you go to the Grand Casino of Monte Carlo, you have to at least TRY your hand. Turns out Lady Luck was smiling upon me–I won at blackjack. Twice. The second hand was an actual Blackjack. Having never before won a damn thing in a casino, I was elated by this; so elated that it seemed like a great idea to quit while I was ahead, and perhaps go make a second attempt at ticket-buying.

We finally managed to procure tickets, and ended up scoring some pretty fantastic seats in the orchestra. Ironically, after all the to-ing and fro-ing surrounding our entrance fee, the concert was without question the weakest part of the day. The venue itself? Utterly spectacular. One of the most riveting, beautiful, excessive things I’ve ever seen. The program? Lackluster, at best. Excepting a few moments where we entertained the mental image of the flautist turning into a Satyr on stage, complete with grape leaf headdress, it was a hard struggle for me and Dr. B.

But honestly, it doesn’t matter that the concert was kind of a drag–it was just another facet of a brilliantly random day, the sort of adventure you never really expect to have in your life. At least, not that I expected to have. If you’d asked me 18 months ago if I thought I’d be spending yesterday winning at blackjack and sipping kirs in Monte Carlo, I would have laughed in your face. And yet, there I was. Having that day.

Which means, of course, it was perfect.

Enter the ninja.

Posted on by
3

One of the more glorious things about living in a foreign country is the fact that unfamiliarity turns everything into an adventure: buying cheese, asking for directions, using the television. Using public transit is, in particular, an epic waiting to happen, as I discovered on the way to pick up Dr. Boyfriend at the airport today.

Despite the fact that I’d been given very good directions by my new friend at the market downstairs (more on him later) I managed to end up making a hash of the journey, getting off at the airport’s free navette* stop (at the recommendation of the bus driver, might I add) when I probably ought to have stayed on the bus longer. Instead, I was lured in by the assurance that the terminal was “Just On The Other Side of the Roundabout,” and the recommendation that I would “Save At Least Ten Minutes” by just walking. Rather than listening to the tiny internal voice that counseled against it, I took the driver’s advice, and subsequently found myself dodging traffic on the freeway, spelunking my way down to a subterranean footpath, seriously considering scaling a chain link fence, and nearly getting flattened under the Kiss and Fly sign by an overzealous Peugot driver.

Serious ninja action, my friends,

(It was actually kind of fun, if the tiniest bit harrowing.)

Mercifully, the adventure had a happy ending: a sunny afternoon, my body intact, cheese on the terrace, strawberry Old-Fashioneds (Nicoise-style), and Dr. B asleep on my couch.

All in a day’s work.

* The little jitney thing that takes you from terminal to terminal.

Couper court!

Posted on by
7

I cut my hair off today.

It was kind of a spur-of-the-moment decision; I hadn’t actually planned on going super-short again for a while (like a leap year, the cropping tends to happen once every four years). The original plan was to grow out the dry, dessicated mess that was once my hair slowly, maintaining my sassy little chin-length bob until we had something to work with again. I wasn’t totally prepared to part with my locks, however tortured they might have been.

And then I accidentally set my hair on fire.

(I am fine.)

Turns out a gas stove can whip up one hell of a fireball when it wants to, and this one managed to jump 18 inches to ignite the strands near my chin. After putting out the flames with surprising swiftness, I knew it was time to admit defeat: my hair was, at last, well and truly destroyed. I’d sort of known this when I discovered it wouldn’t curl anymore, but I liked to think that the liberal application of conditioner might bring it back from the brink. Not so. Once your hair catches on fire, there is no more room for denial: you cut your locks, and cut your losses.

And so, I ventured out into the world in search of a salon with an available appointment for this afternoon. I struck out three times before I got lucky, though my success might not have been luck so much as pity–the entire staff shared a similarly horrified look when I walked in, and  my hairdresser seemed actually quite relieved when I explained that I wanted it all sent to the land of wind and ghosts (so to speak).

It took me a few minutes to share her relief; as I said earlier, I’ve had short hair before, and loved it, but I’m not going to lie: I was nervous. There is a special kind of fear that comes with trying to explain to someone who’s never before touched your hair, whose language you barely speak, that you want them to cut off all your hair. I can’t speak for you menfolk, but for us ladies, our hair is a huge part of our personal identity, as well as a major statement about our femininity. The beauty-industrial complex likes to remind us constantly that our sex appeal is largely tied up in our long, lustrous locks, and that a bad haircut is a one-way ticket to Pariah Central (to say nothing of the fact that cutting our hair OFF means that we are relinquishing our rights to any claim of femininity, so woe betide anyone who Does It Wrong). Basically, screw up your hair, screw up your life*, or so we’re told.

As someone who has never felt particularly feminine (being tall, solid, and possessed of a tendency to lumber) I have enough trouble standing up to the beauty-industrial complex without giving it a reason to say “I told you so,” so it was with tightly closed eyes and bated breath that I listened to the scissors running through my hair. When I was finally encouraged to open them, I could not have been more pleased: Despite what the pile of frizzy white hair all over the floor might have implied, I still looked like a girl. I still looked pretty (in as much as I’m ever going to allow myself to think that). My features actually stood out more, particularly the pointed chin that was lifted in sassy bliss as I floated out of the salon.

While I can’t say I’ll maintain this length for too long, it’s rocking my world right now. It’s cute, it’s saucy, and it helped me practice my French.

Plus, I’m going to save a fortune on conditioner.

* I personally believe this is bullshit, but it’s a message that gets internalized by a lot of women at an early age, and it’s hard to shake.

 

Quote

Posted on by
Reply
“I’m inspired to keep on keeping on, because doing me WORKS…I want people to realize it’s okay to make mistakes. It’s okay to fall down. Get up. Look SICKENING. And make them EAT IT.”

–Latrice Royale