Paris Match

I've just spent an inordinate amount of time reading Un jour avec les people in the new issue of Paris Match and it drove home the point that spending more than a month holed up in my (junior) suite with the curtains drawn and all contact with the outside world cut off (with the exception of room service, of course) has not been the best use of my time. Never mind that these long days and nights have been spent in the company of a fille sympa who knows a thing or two and though I would not characterize her as a flesh-and-blood Encyclopedia Britannica, I must say my understanding and appreciation of people, and women in particular, has grown by leaps and bounds thanks to her.

As I sip my Bruichladdich, I am contemplating the idea to, once again, put myself about a bit and have some interchange with actual people. To that end, I'll reserve a table at Le Cinq just to experience the proximity of others. We'll see what all that entails.

The last time I experimented in this fashion, I witnessed the insufferable side-kick of a late-night TV host charge through the salon carrying his own luggage as though afraid someone might be chasing him for a tip. I had barely recovered from that demonstration when an agent from "Hollywood" invited himself to sit down at my table and pitch a thirty-six hour mini-series to star his client who should be out of prison within the year. Doesn't he know that's what Cannes is for?

As I start to remember what the real world is like, I am having second thoughts about leaving my quarters. Perhaps I'll re-read les people and then decide.