OH MY WORD

from now on that is code for:

have a nice dinner at an Italian streetside cafe in Cannes, stroll along La Croisette, stumble upon the red carpet as a film lets out, don't recognize anyone except Gael Garcia Bernal on the projection screen (yes, Bessie, he's here), head to the bar at the Carlton, meet up with our host and his entourage, get whisked past the velvet rope into a VIP table at a club called Nikki, order a magnum of champagne and Grey Goose and wait until they arrive to decide it is too hot in here let's go elsewhere, hop in a Mercedes CLS 500 with new best friend Gino ("zis car is too much tiny for zee vee eye pees") who takes us to Jimmy'z, a bar at a casino on the water where we wait outside briefly for a gorgeous Parisienne woman to arrive and tell the bouncers to let us all in to what turns out to be an unnamed mobile night club from Paris (takes over a different space each year) with completely open bar, thumping dance floor and a roofdeck overlooking the marina. Gino insists I try the signature cocktail which I do . . . until 5:30 am.