Dispatch from Everywhere - What a Trip!

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Those of you who have been reading this blog since the beginning know that I tend to trip and fall at inopportune times. My first post was about me falling down the stairs at the Beverly Hills Hotel in front of the singer 50 Cent. My last post spoke about me tripping in front of a crowd on the chichi streets of St. Tropez. In others, I've referenced occasions when I unceremoniously tripped, flipped, or dipped in public. If you detect a trend, you are a smart cookie. After all, I do have a scar on my forehead from running into a "Danger" sign. But more on that later.

So in celebration of my gaffes, and for a laugh at my expense, I share with you some chestnuts of me acting inelegantly in some of the world's most elegant places.

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Picture it. Paris on a sunny, summer Sunday. I am walking up the Champs d'Elysee. Everybody is out enjoying the beautiful weekend weather: the cafes lining the sidewalks are packed. I'm sporting what I think is a jaunty look based on some impulse purchases I made at the Hugo Boss shop behind the Louvre. All I need to complete the look is a fashionable dog. 

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As I pass a particularly crowded cafe, I don't notice that a cobblestone is missing in the walk ahead of me. My foot lands perfectly in the void and I lurch forward, yelp, and come perilously close to taking out a table, two ladies, and their tarte tatin. There are some gasps from the crowd. I'm flummoxed, my traveling companion is mortified, and my dignity is nowhere to be seen. I point dramatically to the missing cobblestone and mumble in French-ese about the travesty of the sidewalk's state of repair. I say things like "Mon Dieu!" and "unaccep-TAH-ble!", which do nothing to repair my image and only prolong the train wreck. People start to avert their gaze. Oh dear.

Then there was that time in Portugal. 

I was attending a conference in Lisbon and tacked on some R&R after it. I was staying at the Lisbon Four Seasons and booked a weekend at the seaside resort town of Estoril, just outside of town. The hotel arranged a car for me - an elegant Mercedes sedan with a driver that looked like Roger Moore. I felt very fancy. Here's how it went down, literally.

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As the car approaches my hotel in Estoril, I note that there is a restaurant in front with a large outdoor seating area. I am arriving at midday and the restaurant is packed. As we pull up, people look as Roger exits the car, and comes around to open my door. 

As the door opens, I put on my shades, straighten my back, try to look indifferent, and put out my foot to exit. I am making quite an entrance. So far so good. Except that unbeknownst to me, my other foot is tangled in the strap of my computer bag. As I step out, the strap catches my ankle, and I pitch out of the car and onto the sidewalk. Yep, a full-on drop and roll. Again, gasps from the crowd (Europeans can be so dramatic). Roger quickly bends over to pick me up. My sunglasses are askew on my face, my clothes are dirty, and once again my dignity is MIA. Roger tries to dust me off. I act like it didn't happen and walk up to the hotel like I am on a catwalk. But out of the corner of my eye, I see two ladies sitting at a nearby table - they are laughing so hard, they are in tears. 

Oh, and then there was the time at that film premiere in Toronto. Well that wasn't so much a fall down as a fall up but it's a good one. 

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For many years, I attended the Toronto International Film Festival each September. Over ten days I would go to premieres each night at the beautiful Roy Thomson Hall. As a pass holder, I would file in behind the press on the red carpet. I had great views of all the celebrities as they worked the carpet and talked to the press. 

So this one year, after successive evenings of premieres, I get to know one of the ushers. She kindly hooks me up and gets me into the VIP seating for the premiere of Cate Blanchett's film, Veronica Guerin. The film is based on a true story about an Irish journalist who took on drug lords and was assassinated. 

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I am feeling very A-list where I am sitting but soon I forget that and become engrossed in the film. The acoustics at Roy Thomson Hall are fantastic and the film is being projected on a huge screen. 

During one suspenseful scene, a bad guy appears out of nowhere. The audience gasps and starts a bit, but my reaction is, how do I put it, a little more extreme. You see, I full-out scream, throw my arms up into the air, and jump up out of my seat like I am doing the wave. 

There I am smack in the middle of the orchestra of this magnificent venue, the only one standing (just in case any of the thousands around me are not certain who was responsible for the incident). I sit back down as people titter around me. I am too embarrassed to look over at Cate Blanchett but I doubt she is taking acting notes about my performance.

Then there was the time in Brussels, Belgium. Let me set the scene. 

I am attending a black-tie dinner at the Palace of Justice, a striking 19th century building set high in the city. For the gala, the steps leading up to the building are lined with fires set in urns. It is a windy night. The whole thing is very dramatic. 

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I feel fabulous. But as I bounce up the steps in my tux, I trip and fall to my hands and knees. I quickly pick myself up and keep going, brushing off and neatening my face and hair as I go, telling myself it is dark and probably no one noticed. 

When I get inside, I look down and see that my hands are dirty. I guess there was soot on the steps from the fires. I take a couple of napkins, wipe my hands and carry on. I grab a glass of champagne and enter the reception. I don't know anyone but I'm feeling good in my tux and the venue is gorgeous. I'm feeling like a double-nought spy - an international man of mystery. Then, after some time milling around and smiling at people, I catch my reflection in a mirror. I have streaks of soot across my face from when I tried to straighten up after falling. Good grief. I'm no man of mystery. I look like a chimney sweep.

Oh, and the scar on my head from running into a danger sign? Well, let's keep that one for another day. I think I've said quite enough.

Dispatch from Saint-Tropez, France - Do You Know The Way To Saint-Tropez?

What to say about Saint-Tropez? I've read that the jet set has moved on to other places, tarnishing the town's "it" status. But when I look around, there is no shortage of money, money, money: gargantuan yachts with uniformed staff catering to people sitting high on decks as if on a stage putting on a show; expensive cars, detailed like they are in a museum; exclusive boutiques with door men like at a nightclub; and flamboyant people flaunting their fabulosity, seemingly trying to out-do one another in the brightness of their expensive clothes. The consumption is conspicuous, indeed. And the people watching is highly entertaining, so long as you keep your sense of humor about it.

If you don't have a mega-yacht or a helicopter (or both), or even a simple rental car, Saint-Tropez isn't that easy to get to. I took a train from Marseilles to St. Raphael. From there I boarded a bus to Saint-Tropez. The coach bus was comfortable enough as it careened along the Golfe de Saint-Tropez. But when it arrived at the terminal in Saint-Tropez and spit me and my luggage out onto a confusing maze of streets, I definitely felt like the help and not a jet setter.

I trundled around town looking for my hotel (roller board suitcases should have a shock-absorber option for cobblestones). My hotel is centrally located in the Vieux Port along the Promenade so I thought it would be easy to find. But even though Saint-Tropez is a small town, the streets are windy and confusing. Just when you think you've got it figured out, you get lost once again. Even so, because it is so small, eventually you end up where you want to be. 

As I emerged onto the main square of the Promenade, not looking my freshest, a military band was playing. I don't know why but let's say it was to welcome me. 

My response was an inopportune trip in front of the crowd watching the band. Blessedly, I recovered before it was a full-on drop-and-roll situation but it was a most inelegant introduction. Why do I always do that? In Portugal, I emerged from a car in front of a bustling cafe and poured onto the street because the strap from my bag was wrapped around my leg. In Paris, I was peacocking along the Champs d-Elysee one bright summer afternoon and tripped over a missing cobblestone. And there is always the "yelp" that accompanies the stumble, just in case anyone isn't paying attention. But I'll save all of that for another post.


My hotel is a quaint boutique property that is like the town of Saint-Tropez - a maze of winding hallways and rooms. I've got a tiny but quiet room at the back. I look out onto red-tiled rooftops, palm trees, and cafes. Perfect.


After decompressing, I toodled around town. Saint-Tropez is beautiful. It can fade into the background behind the flash and gaudiness of the people occupying it. But when you focus on the set and not the cast, you see an exquisite town set on a hillside sloping down to the old port and the azur water of the Mediterranean Sea. The buildings are painted in sun-washed pastel colors and roofed in red tiles. And Saint-Tropez, like so many Riviera towns, is a great place to relax - there are not the must-see museums and sights of large cities. Saint-Tropez is all about the charming town and the beautiful beaches that surround it, to be enjoyed at a relaxed pace.

Against this setting, the behemoth yachts in the port, the flashy cars, and the gaudy people look like interlopers.


After exploring the town and noshing on a great dinner, I am now in my hotel room enjoying a glass of Provencal rose. Earlier, a light late-day rain was falling and when the sun poked out for a minute, a full-arc rainbow appeared. Then it morphed into two rainbows (no, really...and it was only one glass of wine). Now, it is late evening and I am perched on the window ledge of my room (not to worry - there are layers of awnings and palm trees below me to cushion a fall). I can smell the foods of the Med from the bistros below - garlic and onions and grilled seafood and meats. The stars are out and the breeze is brisk. I feel like I am in Van Gogh's "Starry Nights". It is all good. 

It is good to know the way to Saint-Tropez (even if your only yacht floats in your bath tub back home).