Aspen- Clawing My Way to Happiness

Empty Buckets

Back in Aspen and watching the slow sunset of pink sky and orange clouds as lightning strikes into the cold September night. There is a crispness all about and the quietness of the offseason heightens the stillness of this sleeping giant. I puff small clouds of Macanudo smoke into the air. I look at the lights on Red Mountain where the tycoons and heiresses wait for their butlers to bring out dinner. From atop the Elk’s Club, an American flag wisps like a horse’s tail in a cold field.

The mountains that were once my home, and everything I once lived for, now seem like a foreign land, a place with nothing left for me but a place I once called home, be it Aspen or any mountain town in the world.

Mountain people drink beers at the bar, waiting for the snow to fall. Tourists shop for groceries and watch the same TV they watch at home. Somewhere someone arrives and someone leaves, for the first time or the last.  Dogs bark.

A sense of seasons is apparent more than other places. The clouds are dropping on autumn leaves. Summer has long gone early. There is a birth and death aura to it. The snow will be dirt thrown on a coffin before a springtime resurrection.

Aspen Shoot

I am here with my new life, showbiz…glitz and glamour and calculated dramatics played out in this stage, the trees the curtains and the boulders the stage lights bouncing sun up on our faces. We talk about feelings and the future, potential in opportunities.

Like anyplace I’ve been I miss things about it, the community, the lifestyle, the people; but it’s not home anymore. There hasn’t been a home for me other than a suitcase for so many years that any home is but a sand mandala waiting to be blown away after hours of carful crafting. Even the most thoughtful life built is temporary, be it a life spent in a week or year or decades in any one place with any set of people.

What makes me happy now are simple things, surprises. New things like new music, new tastes and experiences. I’ve become jaded in some things and my receptors have become burnished in regard to so many aspects of the world and it’s civilizing of it. Simple things done well are better than most things grandiose. More is not better than things done correctly. Or newly.

What is this experience but a great fleeting thing?  Life is needed to be lived with open eyes and heart and luck—made, borrowed, or stolen. Luck and an instinct for ambition to accomplish ones goals and never, ever give up. These are things that must be seen and lived and clawed for, because if we don’t claw our way to the top, or at least claw our way to happiness, the moment will be gone. The sand will be blown away.

Florence

 

Florence

Forty-eight hours in Florence was up next. The flight was less than an hour, quicker than a drive to St. Tropez, and with a lot less traffic this time of year!

Feeling Presidential

We pulled up to the Four Seasons and checked into the Presidential Suite. It was like a room out of Versailles, murals stretched across the ceiling and a brilliant four-hectare garden was just out the window. The room was so extravagant I wouldn’t have been surprised if Robin Leach would pop out and start narrating my life of, “champagne wishes and caviar dreams.”

Omero

For lunch, a fifteen-minute drive brought us to Omero, a quiet eatery overlooking the Tuscan hills. We walked under the small sign that marked the entrance to the inconspicuous door, and into a store full of pigs’ legs and walls of different types of olive oil. There were also fresh pastas, cheeses, wines…it was a place I could really get fat at and not feel bad about it. From there we walked to the quiet restaurant in the back and were greeted by our waiter.

Now I must say, waiters in Italy are as professional as they get, they beam with pride while setting down every dish, and know at least twenty words for cured-ham. Ours was no exception. He was a small man with grey hair, and he ran around with plates of food and bottles of wine, talking conversationally to all the guests as he did so. The food was perfect, simple, local.

Neptune Fountain

Another van, and another encyclopedic driver, took us back into Florence, pointing out churches, fortresses, and statues of statues (a bronze David). Back near the Duomo there were more statues of statues, and buskers dressed as statues sitting below statues, putting on shows whenever a coin was dropped in their tins.

But Florence is, once again, smaller than I thought an ancient European city should be. Compare it to cities in America that have been around for just a few hundred years, and are nothing but sprawl and high-rises, and you’ll be amazed that a city that’s been around since 59 BC only takes up 39.5 square miles. (Cleveland, for example, is 82.4 square miles.) I guess that’s part of its charm.

Most of our time in Florence was spent in the gardens of the Four Seasons sipping coffee and watching the world go by. On the way to the garden on our second day, I almost bumped into the guy from Law & Order, Christopher Meloni.

When he walked by us I thought he was just some American Joe-Schmo with a bad tattoo on his leg. He was big, in a football-player kind of way, and really just a normal guy on vacation.

Castello di Spaltenna

For a quick trip, we headed out into the Tuscan countryside to have lunch at Castello di Spaltenna, a beautiful castle and church built around 1030. The food was great, but the views and peacefulness are what really stood out (I could almost hear the grapes being stomped nearby!) The place wasn’t just a restaurant either, but a full hotel with 8 suites and 30 rooms, there was even a pool.

When I didn’t think it could get any better, I heard we were going to one of the best restaurants in the world, Enoteca Pinchiorri. The Michelin Guide gives it three-stars, which is rare; in 2008 there were only 68 three-star restaurants in the world, according to andyhayler.com. I figured it would be like heaven in my stomach, and it was.

What can I say stood out? Was it the service, the food, the ambience? No, it was the consistency of perfection. Everything was perfect, from the waitress who asked us which of four types of salt we would prefer with our salad (I went with the Himalayan), to the perfectly cooked scallops, to the beaming face of the sommelier, to the silver crumbing tray. They nailed it all, totally nailed it, and then they took us downstairs.

There were plenty of old bottles around, including beautiful bottles that had vintages from America’s dark-age of prohibition. There were also bottles and cases to the ceiling that were older than my grandmother, or great grandmothers, or great-great grandmothers, if they were alive.

As we walked around our friend told all of her daughters, “Don’t touch anything,” just as we came to the grandest of the grand-finales.

I’d never seen a bottle of wine from 1870, but in a place that has six sommeliers, and 145,000 bottles in their cellars of a 500 year-old building, I wasn’t surprised. The sommelier said the bottle had been re-corked, as it was so old the cork might break down. So would we open it?

No, but we did go upstairs for chocolate and cheese and talked to a man that knew more about cheese than the Pope knows about God. It was incredible, all of it. The wine, the service, the food, the cheese, and finally the coffee and cab…as in taxi-cab.

David

We had to get to the hotel somehow and after a meal like that we were all way to blissed-out to get behind the wheel, not to mention the small dent we made in the massive cellar. Amazing, it was the perfect way to end our trip to Florence.

London: June 25th-26th

Wellington Arch

Now in London, and it’s hot. I thought it was supposed to always be raining here but I guess I got the one summer day of the year and wishing for Bermuda shorts and flip flops. Instead I’m decked out to the upper crust specifications with a dress shirt and blazer. I guess that is why the Indian fortuneteller following me around Bond Street told me I haven’t found happiness yet. Happiness is a swimming pool and a margarita.

I’m writing from my room with a view of Hyde Park, where The Killers will be performing tomorrow while I head over to Reims, France. London itself isn’t anything like I’d thought. It isn’t raining, it’s not grungy and dark like NYC, nor is full of skyscrapers. Mary Poppins and the dancing chimney sweeps are missing as well.

We’re staying at the legendary Dorchester Hotel, which opened way back in 1931. Everyone from Brittany Spears to Yul Brynner have stayed here, Peter Sellers died here. But those are just entertainers, Winston Churchill, Lord Halifax, and Dwight D. Eisenhower slept here too.

Full Service

I can see why pop-stars or world leaders stay here, The Dorchester is what 5-star accommodations are all about, service upon service. Bellhops to bring up your bags and then offer to call a valet to unpack them. Three waiters come by your table while you dine, to check if you need anything; be it food, alcohol, or coffee. Tall men in top hats open the door for you and hail taxis. They make you feel like royalty, because the guest standing behind you just might be a king or sheik or princess!

In the hotel Promenade I spotted at least one teen heartthrob with a teenager beard (Chace Crawford) who talked about how different LA was from New York. After taking a walk in the park Spinal Tap was waiting at the door with their children. They were in full costume, wigs and tights, and ready to rock (or at least go to eleven).  They are apparently back on tour, in the UK to play at the Glastonbury Festival and a show at Wembley Arena. Of course it is called the, “One Night Only World Tour! [With] a second show added,” according to www.spinaltap.com.

The rooms are a bit floral for my taste; they’re something my grandmother might enjoy—with flowers on the wallpaper, bedspreads, and upholstery. But the rooms aren’t where you hang out, unless you’re celeb hiding from the media.

With one night only, we had dinner at Nozomi Sushi, went dancing, and were back in the room late enough to assure a hangover.

Since 1834

Waking in a stupor, we made a quick shopping trip to Bond St. and then to Harrods for a shopping experience right out of a Disney movie. Bright-colored rooms full of everything from make-up to jelly beans, cigars to sunglasses were on every floor. The staff wore many hats, quite literally, be it that of a sushi chef or ice-cream man.

One of each please...

With our jellybeans and bottles of wine in tow, we headed back for a final afternoon tea in the Promenade, complete with finger sandwiches and warm scones. Our plane was waiting to bring us to the heart of the champagne, Reims, for a private Dom Perignon tasting. The men in top hats opened the door for one last time, and we said goodbye to the Dorchester.

Rome

I had been lying low on the party scene lately, hiding in the mountains, climbing the cliffs above Monaco and working on my tan. Sometimes I have to step back and put things in perspective, and the cliffs of La Turbie tend to be the perfect vantage point.

Our little dog started barking, the phone was ringing, and I knew it wasn’t Commissioner Gordon (though I have been feeling a bit like Bruce Wayne—driving fast cars and now hanging from rope like batman). My girlfriend shouted up the good news as she lowered me down the cliff, we are off to Italy!

Arch of Constantine

Everything in Italy is old, older that history sometimes. Coming from a young country like the U.S. it’s hard to fathom something built before year zero. Two-thousand years is a long time, think about how long that is in TV season years!

Aqueducts, churches, and fountains were everywhere, and every once and awhile I’d catch a glimpse of Tom Hanks on the posters promoting Angels and Demons. “Many of the things are wrong in the movie,” said our driver. “And the church wouldn’t allow them to film in many of the locations from the book.” He pointed out a church that the production company apparently copied and build a façade replica of across the street from the real church. Contrived? Of course, it’s Hollywood!

We checked into the Hassler, located just above the Spanish Steps, and we could see the Vatican from our window. But we were only in town for 24 hours, so like Keifer, we off to save the world…by sightseeing.

I'm a Tourist

Our driver was encyclopedic in nature, pointing out the sights, telling the history, dates, people, and was in the know when it came to bypassing the lines to places like the Colosseum (there is such a thing as a velvet rope in sightseeing). Over the day we saw a few fountains, statues, unification monuments, just your run of the mill most-beautiful-things-ever. After awhile I noticed that there are more statues in Rome than hotdog carts in NYC.

We hit the other main sights in Rome (see below), but like any European city, the best thing about Rome was having coffee at a Piazza and watching the world go by.

The next morning, we hit some shops and did some more sightseeing, but our time was up, and it was back to Monaco for a day.

Top things to see in Rome in 24 hours: The Colosseum, The Pantheon, Spanish Steps, Piazza Navona, Vatican City, Altare della Patria, Trevi Fountain.

Ready for More Travel

I’m back from Italy and I will be posting the story soon. But be ready for more as I’m heading to the UK, Belgium, and the outskirts of Paris next week. More articles will be posted on fr2day.com soon enough, and looking into expanding things here in the world of blogging. The season in St. Tropez is now starting up and the polo action has been great. I’ve been climbing again and totally blown away by the amount of rock around here. Stay tuned…

Climbing the Verdon Gorge

Verdon Gorge

It’s one of those places you see in the magazines and say, “I wanna climb there one day.” Perfect limestone walls drop down to the river below in what is known as the Grand Canyon of France. There are routes of all types, from trad, sport, and aid climbs. The river offers canoeing, kayaking, and canyoning. Sainte-Croix-du-Verdon has beaches for swimming and sunbathing. The best part was the proximity, this world-class destination is only an 1.5 hours from Cannes, an easy day trip.

A View from the Lake

I recommend starting early as the sun is an energy-suck in the summer. Bring lots of water, a helmet, two-ropes, and some long runners for slinging trees. Even on the bolted climbs it’s nice to have a few cams and some stoppers, because while the cracks here are generally bolted, the bolts can be a bit far apart if you’re used to sport crags.

The gorge itself is 700 meters deep, so the exposure is amazing, even on the short routes along the rim. A lot of the routes under the parking lots seemed to be around 150 meters or so.

Gran Prix Monaco

BY ALEX MCAFEE From FR2DAY.COM MAY 28, 2009

The Monaco Grand Prix wasn’t just about cars going fast on one of the toughest F1 courses there is, it was about pre-parties, race parties, boat parties, and after parties. Celebrities spilled over from Cannes as the Film Festival wrapped up, and the night before the race, there was already a traffic jam getting into the principality.  Richard Branson, Michelle Yeoh, Elizabeth Hurley, David Furnish, Josh Hartnett, and Charlene Wittstock all joined in the Monaco party festivities.

Richard Branson and Bernie Ecclestone in The Amber lounge.

A jam packed Monaco harbour.

The night before the finals, we found ourselves at Jimmy’z,packed shoulder-to-shoulder with the normal crowd of sport coat boys and plastic surgery girls. We rolled in with some American friends and found there was a Dutch contingency I’d met duringQueen’s Night  in Amsterdam (above) – and boy do the Dutch know how to party. Booze, booze, and more booze made it another fun time at Jimmy’z. Our group called it an early night (at around 5:00 AM), but the next day saw the videos of the Dutch dancing in front of Jimmy’s at 8:30 AM-like I said, the Dutch know how to party.

The day of the big race was everything Monaco: yachts lined up worth millions upon millions, glamorous people watched from designer sunglasses, and the Mediterranean stretching out beyond the coral-pink buildings.

Everyone told me beforehand that the Grand Prix was like, “watching noise.” I disagree; it’s like feeling noise. The engines popped and revved through the air, reverberating up the buildings and through the streets of Monaco. It was part fireworks display without the fireworks and just the sounds. The cars screamed by underneath, looking like toys from our view, 16-stories up. On a TV over a lobster buffet, the racing stats lined the screen.

I guess a Brit won. All I knew was that the race ended after the 78 laps and I only saw a few minor crashes, not even crashes, really just cars sliding off the track now and then. It was a funny thing, all of the preparation, the weeks of building the infrastructure, and the race seemed to be done in an instant-I guess that’s what happens when cars go 286 km/h.

Spring Break is what the Grand Prix after party at Sea Loungefelt like, as it was one of the youngest parties I’d been to here in Monaco. Beautiful people were everywhere, including the Dutch posse and a ton of Monaco local kids who were in town for the Grand Prix festivities. Rosé-all-day continued, with oversized bottles of the stuff being poured, guzzled, and sprayed like champagne.

A quick visit to The Rascasse to experience Blah Blah and then back to the SL where the party continued and our table started throwing ice buckets at another table and someone leaned over to tell me, “It’s a tradition.” Bouncers kept coming over to talk to a kid that looked a bit like Steve-O from Jackass, but somehow we never got kicked out (though they did tackle someone). The music was totally off-the-hook, some of the freshest stuff I’ve heard in a long time. I remember a seat-cushion flying through the air, a perfect sunset, and somehow ending up eating cheeseburgers at a hotel pool in the very early hours of the morning.

The post-party the next day was on socialite Denise Rich’s yacht. The red carpet was out and the champagne everywhere. On board was everyone from Jean-Claude Van Damme, Victoria Silvstedt, and Mr. Haircare-the one and only Nick Chavez. The whole upper floor was a dance party to the sounds of Gypsy Queens and the scene, like Monaco, was very international. People from Australia, Austria, and Aspen filled the three upper decks, and a kid from South Africa poured drinks. As billionaires and trophy wives laughed and sang I knew this wasn’t Christmas, this was Monaco!

Cannes Part 2

BY ALEX MCAFEE From FR2DAY.COM JUN 5, 2009

So, after the first half of the week saw me rub shoulders with Cannes’ rich and famous, I had high hopes for the rest of the festival’s parties. And it certainly didn’t disappoint!

Thursday was the big event, the one everyone was waiting for,amfAR. It was one of those surreal evenings that I can only say is due, once again, to my good party-karma. I found myself in a Porsche convertible, my amazing girlfriend at my side, in the lineup for the red carpet. From two blocks away we could see the flashbulbs going off like fireworks, while security guards complete with earpieces and clipboards directed traffic to the valet.

I felt like I was at the Oscars, with the bleachers (literally bleachers) full of paparazzi yelling, “Up here! Look up to the left! How about a smile!” I found myself obeying, posing to the best of my ability, until I realised they weren’t shouting at us – they were talking to the movie stars and celebrities surrounding us. At the red carpet’s end, the Hotel Du Cap sat glowing in the last of the day’s sun. It was a postcard moment, with the ever-present paparazzi there to record it all.

We made our way through the lobby, down the stairs looking on the famous garden, to the Eden Roc, and to the mega-yachts anchored beyond. Everyone seemed, and looked, fabulous. Waiters constantly topped up champagne glasses and offered Hors d’œuvre, while various languages – Italian, French, and all types of English – were spoken around us. Trophy wives and trophy boys (I’m talking to you Doug Reinhardt) strolled by kissing other couples on the cheeks – one for Americans, twice for French, three for Dutch.

The main event was about to begin as everyone was ushered towards the huge tent at the end of the garden. As we sat down to watch the show playmates, supermodels, writers, directors, producers, actors, tycoons, and musicians filed in. Our table could have been the cast for a modern version of Gilligan’s Island. I was seated among two NYC socialites, a billionaire and his wife, a publicist, my girl, her family, and an Austrian man who was so Austrian I could have sworn it was Mike Myersdoing a schtick (except that Myers was actually sitting behind me).

The tent itself was two blocks wide, the walls covered withBruce Weber photos, and the rest of the look was said to be the brainchild of Donatella Versace (though it was tough seeing what was actually Versace about the place). At the head of the room was a podium that hosted everyone from Kenneth Cole, Harvey Weinstein and Sharon Stone, to Slick Willie himself,Bill Clinton. The cast of ‘Inglourious Basterds’, sans Brad Pitt, took to the stage and Eli Roth went into character as the ‘Bear Jew’ to auction off a private screening of the film.

Things were pretty much surreal the whole time, especially when50 Cent, dressed in a grey suit (think Sean Connery as 007), introduced himself to everyone at our table. Then the kid from‘Twilight‘, Robert Pattinson, humbly paced the stage as a father bid for the ultimate sweet-sixteen gift, a kiss on the cheek for his daughter from the vampire heartthrob. Two kisses sold at 20,000 Euros each. I talked to Pattinson a bit after the dinner, he seemed normal, a kid thrown into the spotlight who seemed blissfully unaware of his starpower. Some of the other Hollywood kids at the event included Emile Hirsh (who is so short he could do stunts for Verne Troyer), Josh Hartnett, BJ Novak, and Joshua Jackson.

Post-dinner by the pool was a place for us commoners (aka non-celebs) to mix with the glitterati. The DJ spun actual vinyl, instead of a Scratch Live computer mix, and you could actually hear the beautiful hiss of the needle on the record.

Then, as if they were able to hear a silent cue, the stars made their way out of the Eden Roc and headed over to Christian Audigier’s birthday party (Audigier is the marketing genius behind the Von Dutch and Ed Hardy clothing lines, and is friends with everyone from Madonna to Michael Jackson).

We decided to make a break for it and try our luck at the event, after chatting to some friends who were already there.

Things started looking bad a few blocks from the club as a seaside traffic jam of Ferraris and Lamborghinis blocked the way. We moved slowly, a few metres per minute, and all hope seemed lost. We were still in Zenga black-tie and D&G gown, and already apprehensive as we watched the hordes of party people moving past us in jeans and mini-skirts, when a bright light of hope shone in the darkness, a car was pulling out of a parking spot!

The spot was small, too small for the Ferraris and Lamborghinis, but just right for a Porsche – it had to be a sign, good party-karma was with us. We walked the remaining blocks to the Palm Beach Casino, where we faced a scene that was part Mad Max, part Golden Globes.

It was chaos – pure and simple. Bouncers held back the throngs with metal barriers as VIP hosts holding the sacred guest list tried to figure out who was really on The List and who was just trying to blag their way in. The gate was packed twenty people deep on all sides for sixty metres. Behind it, the red carpet ran up the stairs and beyond, to where lights flashed between paparazzi and disco balls.

We acted as if at a death-metal concert, elbowing our way forward until we got to the gate. We attempted to act confident and hide our nervousness as we prayed for any of our friends inside the party to hear their phones and come and get us. But party-karma once again shined upon us as, within minutes of reaching the gate, a friend was coming out. She tapped the gatekeeper on the shoulder and we were pulled past the horde, onto the red carpet, and up to the most hyped party of the night.

Inside there were lions and ponies and camels, literally. A petting zoo and lion tamer sat next to a pizza tent as you entered past the cameras. Two-storey banners of Audigier covered the building like WWII propaganda, and a boxing ring was open to any drunkards wishing to beat themselves silly.

The club was packed beyond belief, with the VIP sections more crowded than the dance floor. Balconies and stages were covered with everyone who could say they were at the ‘It’ party of Cannes. Eventually, 50 Cent appeared again, now out of his suit and back to his roots – wearing a baseball cap and t-shirt. The crowd went crazy as he busted out song after song, Carine Roitfeld and Eva Herzigova (see lead photo) strutted their stuff with the masses and every track I recognised as a hit. But it was too much, and we were overdressed. After having the most rewarding piece of pizza I’ve had since coming to Europe, we were back in the car, off to attempt to get some sleep before the next day’s luncheon.

Friday we were back at the Eden Roc for the David Morris Amend Charity Luncheon, where we again joined socialites and stars for a great organisation raising money “to reduce the incidence of child road traffic injury in the developing world”. Michelle Yeoh and New York Socialite, Ella Krasner, both spoke on behalf of this important issue. The tables around us contained scores of beauties, including Claudia Schiffer, Kerry Washington, Goga Ashkenazi, and the original Bond Girl, Ursula Andress.

It was after the luncheon that it all becomes a bit hazy.

I vaguely remember boarding a private plane with my girlfriend, and the next thing I know I am laying on a beach. Still, it could be worse – gone are the days I used to wake up laying in a random university dorm! I just can’t wait to see where I wake up after next year’s festival – In a tub filled with champagne and supermodels perhaps?

 

Cannes Part 1

BY ALEX MCAFEE FOR FR2DAY.COM JUN 5, 2009

I feel like my eyes are full of sand. I prise my tongue from the roof of my mouth and struggle to sit up. As I attempt to look around me, I am blinded by intense sunshine.

Looking down I see I am in swimming trunks and flip-flops, laying on a beach. I attempt to remember how I found myself in this situation, with my gorgeous girlfriend sprawled out next to me in a tiny bikini.

Slowly, slowly, things start coming back to me. Images of Paris Hilton, Quentin Tarantino and, randomly, Bill Clinton flash into my head as I start to piece together the events of the past week – the Cannes Film Festival.

It all started with the FR2DAY launch party, drinking rosé (drinking rosé seems to be the only constant in my life) and meeting all the English-speaking people in Cannes. It was a brilliant community to meet for my first real introduction to the place – families, young people, older people – everyone seemed welcoming and friendly.

Afterwards, we made our way along the Croisette to the Chacha tent, run by the Parisian club of the same name. Somehow we got past the bouncers and in seconds we were sipping Chivas 18 year from the open bar. The Disney party, next door, was wall-to-wall black tie and looked like a mosh-pit full of penguins. Outside, over-worked Disney execs with sallow skin and dead eyes basked in the glory of the sound bites they sputtered to the international press at the gates.

Inside the Chacha tent, the DJ blasted dance tunes through the eclectic mix of NYC hipsters, French kids in suits, and everyone from LA who claimed to be in ‘the Biz’. The décor by Julian Labrousse and Marie Peltier was that of a cowboy homestead, with barnwood floors and antique furniture. We called it an early night as it was only day one of the Cannes Film Festival, though early in Cannes is a massively relative term.

The weekend was relatively quiet, consisting of dinners with Austrian producers, New York socialites, and German supermodels – basically a normal weekend in the South of France!

Monday dawned, the week began and the parties really started to kick off. It started with an interesting experience of snapping models at JC Biguine’s, as they prepped for their show at Cosy Box for Fashion TV. The place was swarming with cougars – older women who sat being beautified before enjoying their big moment. Outside women with fake tits, lips, and lipo-sucked hips walked by the paparazzi. I swear, if I didn’t know better, I’d think I was in LA.

After shaking my feeling of deja vu, I headed over to theErmenegildo Zenga cocktail party at the Carlton Hotel, where they were launching their new fragrance Colonia. Not a bad turnout considering – with everyone from Quentin Tarantino, Ryan Phillippe, and hoards of models roaming the halls and patios in packs.

One of the toughest things about the Cannes Film parties isn’t getting into the parties – it’s trying to figure out if the parties are ‘hot or not’, for lack of a better term! With companies trying to link themselves with the film festival, and professional networkers organising events with the sole purpose of exchanging business cards, it’s hard to sort out the duds from the real balls-to-the-wall blowouts.

During the festival, I went to a particular party (an art show that will remain anonymous) where everyone stood against the walls waiting for someone ‘important’ to come in. I don’t think anyone ‘important’ was even invited to that party but everyone attended in the hope that a name would arrive so they themselves could feel ‘important’. They were more concerned with being seen than having fun – in short, it was a yawn fest.

I went to a few store parties throughout the week, where the free champagne flowed and salesmen attempted to sell shoes. Eventually, with the right amount of good party-karma (that’s right, I’m coining a new phrase, so pay attention), I found myself almost at a good party. The problem was that I was too late – the DSQUARED2 party was just letting out as they checked our names off the guestlist and opened the velvet ropes. Paris Hilton herself came strutting out, along with the rest of the Hollywood Brat Pack I would continue seeing during the festival.

The second week of parties really get going so come back on Friday to find out how I embarrassed myself in front of the world’s paparazzi, why I nearly found myself in a boxing ring opposite a lion tamer, and how I managed to end up on a secluded beach.

Queen’s Day Amsterdam

  Into the Canals

Usually a piano full of booze would surprise me, but after walking along the streets of Amsterdam on Queen’s Day, it was not unexpected. On the walk over to our boat, we passed the usual scenes of this national day of togetherness; massive stages, cafes full of people dressed in orange, and sidewalk sales where people sold secondhand cloths.

Did I mention the orange? I’ll mention it again. Everything was orange. Everything. Sunglasses, wigs, shirts, hair, dogs, even the air. All this to honor the Dutch Royal Family, The House of Orange.            

Booze Piano

So we arrived at our party boat, with the booze piano, in a canal near the city center and started loading in the speakers and amps. Random people walked by dancing to random music coming out of random windows as our posse began to trickle in.

It was about this time that someone tried to kill the queen. A man tried to ram the royal family’s bus with his Suzuki, but instead, crashed through the crowd, and into a stone monument. None of the royals were killed but seven others were (including the attacker), twelve others were injured. I didn’t see it firsthand as it was in Apeldoorn, just an hour east of Amsterdam. We saw it on the news at a nearby bar and heard updates along our boat ride. It was tragic, but it didn’t stop the party. (Queen’s Day brings about 700,000 visitors into Amsterdam, which already has over one million inhabitants, all of it mixing for a large party momentum that is unstoppable.)

Our Host Michel

Back to the posse: the whole gang was Dutch, except for myself and a couple of German girls. Poshness was a theme, with orange polo shirts and designer sunglasses being the norm. The captain, piano player, and sound techs were all straight out of a piano bar, literally.

Canal Party

Setting sail into the mayhem, I had no idea what to expect, as so far, the day was already like Mardi Gras, Spring Break, and the Fourth of July rolled into one. I was pleasantly surprised to see all walks of life floating along with us on everything from inflatable rafts to massive tourist cruisers. It felt like we were in a parade, with people along the sides laughing and dancing and people shouting from the bridges we passed under.

Orange Craze

We drank from the piano as the musician played on it’s other end and spun techno on CD turntables. Other boats would float by and we would have massive dance-barge gridlock. Smoke was everywhere; after all, it was Amsterdam. But this smoke was orange, like everything else; and while passing through the fog of Queen’s Day, it didn’t seem like the party would ever stop.

Out to Sea

Eventually the canals opened up into a large shipping lane and we docked. The party patrol was winding down, and for our afterparty we moved to a three-story yacht just as the sky turned dark. It had been nearly nine hours of drinking and dancing. Coupling began and the couples moved to different parts of the boat as a few of us could only think of food. The day was done, for us.

Afterparty Yacht

We left the yacht that would continue the party until the next morning and headed for downtown, the orange smoke ahead our North Star.