Post-Traumatic Stress

I'm back. I am now attempting to recover from an extreme case of ego and sun stroke; a potentially lethal combination if ever there was one. I was at Cannes where I fell victim to the aforementioned malady. I don't know if there were more people at the Festival this year or if the egos have gotten bigger. All I know is there seemed to be less space in which to maneuver.

My own ego was re-sized when Sophie Marceau failed to recognize me as I deplaned the studio's GV at Nice. It regained its full proportion when I found that my room was ready and waiting at the Hotel du Cap. Next year I think I should ask for one of the Eden Roc suites; it's a long walk to the water otherwise.

The highlight of this year's Festival was Roman Polanski's early departure from his own press conference accusing the journalists of asking questions pauvres. I wish just once I could do that.

To recover from the stress and tension that is the Festival, I spent a few days on the balcony of the Sube in St. Tropez where I rediscovered the Tarte Tropézienne--as close to Heaven as I'm likely to get! As a change of pace, I then took in the gypsy convention at Ste. Maries-de-la-Mer where gypsies the world over gather to pickpocket everyone within arm's reach and no longer feel it necessary to sport colorful and engaging costumes in order to do so. Their parade looked like the exit of the Métro at Barbès-Rochechouart during a bomb scare.