A spontaneous weekend in Cannes? Why not! Regrets can still be had afterwords. All the better if there is nothing to regret. Not one fucking thing!
Monday, 11.10 a.m., Milano. Not where I should be right now but when am I ever. Mood: Drop dead tired, nonetheless full of hope as to make it to Zurich at last and at the same time sad to leave. Already the arrival turned out to be troublesome. The first train was cancelled; the substitute came, yet two hours late – normal for Italy. Then, in Milan, chop-chop, go: road trip. A rancid pizza from the service area and a potty break later we finally arrived in Cannes at one a.m. Just in time to hit the clubs. At two we walked the alleys, had a drink here and there, sometimes more, seldom less. Suddenly our group of two turned into five, our communication took place in four different languages and sometime after three a.m. we felt like paying a short visit to the VIP Room. A good choice, as it turned out. It was full and hot and crowded and loud, exactly how it is supposed to be. But soon my travelling companion Ewan McGregor – no, not the actor – and I felt a bit too observed and escaped to the rooftop terrace where we enjoyed a spectacular view of palm trees, yachts and the glittering sea and then, as one thing led to another, we made out for a little bit and then we went a little further and then, well, you know. Unfortunately we got kicked out by security; therefore we looked for a cozy spot in the stairway and, well, you know. Afterwards we went to an after party at a tiny club where only whores and gays like to hang out. And us, of course. Eventually even I had had enough of dancing and when we walked out into the ghastly daylight it was already 6.30 a.m. Right away we headed towards the apartment to, well, you know, and then get some desperately needed rest.
New day, new party! This time at Nikki Beach, dancing all afternoon long in the sand with plenty of vodka and Malibu, sunglasses on and shoes off. It was easy to see who had already nibbled on cocaine that day, namely those who uninhibitedly shook their drugged up bodies to the electric beats of the DJ. Still it was Ewan and me who got down the hardest, high on the sun, not enough sleep and too much vodka. Nearby at Baoli Beach there was music playing too, gradually even better one, so we changed location and found ourselves amid a group of partying Italian models with whom we took the sofas apart and danced on the tables. After a quick nap and some energy dissipating activities we needed a greasy base for our stomach to suck up the remaining alcohol and to be able to handle the soon replenishment. Never would I have expected this to happen in France of all places but in a small restaurant in a side street I was treated to the best pizza of my life. Not even the Rosso at Geroldstrasse could keep up with it! After the pasta – pizza only counts as appetizer – and a much needed after-dinner walk we remained faithful to old habits and tippled local as well as eastern specialties until it nearly came out of our ears and we were more than ready for night number two.
Where the warm evening air led us to, I can not say, but our local expert knew what he was doing because after a short drive we stood in front of Gotha Club, together with about two hundred other people. Luckily we knew only one person but he was the right one to know because a mere minute later we had slid past the queue and were celebrating with the avid crowd. Actually, celebrating is not even close to describing the state we were in. I felt like I had died three times and woken up in heaven. My goddess of luck had truly outdone herself (I’d like to pay a compliment to her for the whole weekend by the way!) because no less a figure than Joachim Garraud played a DJ set that night! We raved like madmen, later only the crowd and I were still raving – claustrophobic Ewan had fled to the less filled terrace in the meantime; but at some point the involuntary body contact grew too intense and I left to search for Ewan and the expert. Instead I found two Anglophile French guys who wanted to party on with me in their villa. I didn’t feel like partying with them though. That’s why I headed back to Joachim, passing the VIP area on my way and was immediately snatched and lifted up onto a black upholstery from where drinking and dancing was also not too shabby.
Funnily some of the owners of the lounge were from Zurich. I should have expected so because we are like a disease, spreading all over the world. The rest of them were from Serbia, among them Boris who was a great deal better looking than his name might imply. “Names are not important”, Boris philosophized, as if reading my thoughts. “Tonight only one thing matters”, he said and stuck his tongue up my throat. Why not, I thought and went along with it for a while until Joachim got fed up with playing his DJ set and put on his fantastic intro song. If Joachim goes, I’ll go, I decided and switched lounges. Ewan knew some people and we reveled on with them till dawn. Tired but happy we were almost the last ones to leave the club. Shortly after we crashed onto our bed where we, well, you know. The next afternoon arrived much too fast, so when we woke up at three p.m. and noticed in horror that we had already missed our scheduled departure, there was just enough time for a quick shower and a chocolate croissant. The hasty departure had one advantage though: We didn’t have time to think about how unwilling we were to leave this place. I almost made it out of town without any sadness but then Ewan put on “Time to Pretend” by MGMT and melancholia hit me -bitter, sweet melancholia. Because „Time to Pretend“ is the perfect song – for Cannes, for Ewan, for the best time in life.
Despite our late leave I would still have been able to catch the last train, if not some unlucky bastard had built a huge accident on the highway. Consequence: two hours of traffic jam. To pass time we locked ourselves in the car and, well, you know. Then, finally, traffic was moving again and we kept going for a bit while driving, which is not very recommendable looking from a safety-related point of view, but on the other hand a dull five hour drive is also not very recommendable. The last train had of course steamed off long ago by the time we finally made it to Milan. For that reason poor Ewan had to bear me for another night and I got to try the best ice cream of the whole of Milan, or so I was told. At midnight we fell deadbeat into bed, yet not too exhausted to, well, you know. And now, now I am sitting at Milano Centrale and am waiting together with approximately one million other people for the train that will bring me home which of course is late again. But I am in no hurry to leave. Although you never know what is waiting for me at home. It is a good feeling being able to choose every direction and feeling equally excited about it.