And the rest . . .
Wednesday - Mercredi

The real tragedy of losing the use of the camera isn’t missing the party photos and self-promotion opportunities. It’s the hundred amazing things a day I come across every day in France that I’ll never see again, images that 20 years from now will spark off the stories. For example I had to wear my tuxedo shoes all day since my Doc Martins were still soaked. Being ten years old and not used to such punishment, they started to come apart, the sole separating from the bottom of the left one and flapping. I felt like Emmet Kelly (famous hobo clown reference). The concierge at the Noga sent me over to the repair shop by the train station. Picture a tiny place – half the size of my room and full of shoes – with a little Frenchman facing the window, hammering away at my shoes. It was like a Vermeer painting.

Now, here I sit trying to piece together the rest of the day’s activities, and I’m at a loss without the photo record. Oh Right! I was hanging around on the Kodak Beach and my friend Agatha, the aspiring German actress (see Wednesday – Red Dress) who was as exhausted as I was, but needed headshots for a casting agent whom she was to meet with who needed them. It was the unique pairing of the high-maintenance European woman and the high-efficiency American man. I formulated a plan, and led her and her friend, loping along behind in their lycra dresses through the Rue D’Antibes looking for a photo Store. It’s actually one of my fondest memories of the trip: by the time we made it from the American Pavilion to the Croisette, I had been stopped by 4 or 5 different people, saying hello and asking when my film was. I felt like a real swell. Finally we went to Monoprix (Sav-on meets K-Mart), bought a disposable Kodak camera, and had a photo session on the sidewalk in front of the one hour photo. I even had her walk down the street while I walked backwards, snapping like a paparazzi. It was brilliantly rediculous. I found out the next day that for a €12 camera, the pics came out great.

Nipped back to the hotel top put on my Tuxedo – Met Michael Errington Peter Rhamsey, and two out of three of the Polish girls (Sylvia & Bernadette) at the Magestic Bar. Had an expensive cocktail with Amy who says we’re now famous for getting pushed into the pool together. Took a taxi up the the villa of Mr. Hinduja, “the tenth richest man in the world” as Michael called him, for a lovely party with loads of drinks and mountains of strange vegetarian foods. It’s become a theme as it was the third Indian function I’ve been to at Cannes. I did my best to stay away from the pool. The view of Cannes was spectacular. Had a long lovely chat with a young Indian woman director whose name, Apsara, is the Indian word for Angel. (I know that's like saying 'the American word' or 'the African word', but I plead ignorance.) Question of the evening: Is that a real Degas hanging over the piano? Again, if I only had the camera...

With Peter, and the other Peter and new pal Nigel, a print journalist from London, walked down the hill to the next villa party. Melissa, who we ran into at the Hinduja’s, paced us with her boyfriend Mark on his motorcycle. It was a massive villa hosted by a Lingerie magnate from New Zealand. It was a nice party in spite of the intermittent rain. Ended up having a nightcap with Peter and Nigel back at Nigel’s hotel. Fantastic conversation. You’d think we’d been friends for years, and I’m sure we will be.

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