The ancient Greeks dreamed up the concept of irony to highlight the rift between perception and reality. But friends, let me tell you the true* definition of ironic: I was turned away from the Hunger Games:Catching Fire party at the Cannes Film Festival, and I was actually hungry.

I know what you’re thinking. How could this happen to someone in possession of a prized pink access badge? The answer’s pretty simple. By day, the Cannes Film Festival is a grown-up affair with artists and other creative types showcasing their work to an audience of thousands of journalists and marketing professionals. But once night falls it’s straight down the rabbit hole to high school. Only with more expensive clothes and less Clearasil.

Just as in 9th grade when you couldn’t sit at the cool kids table without the OK from someone, usually a girl with much nicer hair than you, you can’t get into the hot Cannes parties without getting approval from a Lady of the List, usually a girl with much nicer hair, etc.

Which is why I found myself standing in the rain at 10 o’clock at night, watching the wind whip the palm trees along the Cannes waterfront and trying to take photos of the beautiful people from afar.

“It’s a lovely night isn’t it?” said my companion, that international journalist of renown known to us as the Trained Observer. “Very fresh.”

I brushed a gallon or so of water off my shoulders. “Very fresh,” I said bitterly.

We inched our way up the line and finally reached the checkpoint. “Is my name written there?/On the page white and fair,” I hummed softly to myself. But very softly, California humor does not play well in La Belle France.

(Speaking of Gallic giggles, they showed a Jerry Lewis film as part of the Cannes Classics series. The Ladies Man. Inside joke?)

It probably will come as no surprise that I was summarily rejected from the Catching Fire party.

Oh, cruel fate. I could smell the salty tang of fried finger foods and could almost hear the clink of cocktail artists at work. Meanwhile, the wind decided to take it up a notch from stiff sea gale to young typhoon, lashing the rain sideways.

Water, water everywhere nor any drop to drink, as the old sailor put it when his buds decided to give him the bird.

But just when I thought the evening was going to be as jolly as Oedipus’s honeymoon, hope dawned. We took a short stroll down the street and found ourselves at another bash. The Trained Observer was on the list, I was not, but with a firm, “Elle est avec moi ,” in we went.

Ah, sweet victory! The lights, the dryness, the music, the young men carrying trays of nourishment, and, dearest of all, the open bar.

Two gin and tonics later I looked around at the well-dressed crowd, some talking to each other listlessly, restless eyes raking the crowd for signs of more important people to shmooze, some ignoring the party altogether and staring obsessively at their smart phones.

“Trained Observer,” I said, “Some of these folks don’t seem that excited to have been on The List.”

“I know,” said the Trained Observer. “Ironic, isn’t it?”

Cheers, classically.

*Not actually the definition of irony.

Paging Robie the cat.

Yes, it’s true. A burglar or burglars swooped into a Cannes hotel room this week and made off with $1 million in jewels.

If life had been imitating art more faithfully, the heist would have taken place at the Carlton Hotel, setting for a number of the scenes in Hitchcock’s Riviera caper, To Catch a Thief.

Instead, the theft took place at the more modest Novotel.

The jewelry belonged to the Swiss watch and jewelry company, Chopard, and was in Cannes to be loaned to stars appearing at the film festival. The gems were being kept in a wall safe in the hotel room of a Chopard employee, according to police, but thieves short-circuited that measure by simply ripping the safe out of the wall.

The investigation continues.

I’m guessing it’s very unlikely the heist will involve anyone who looks like Cary Grant, or Grace Kelly for that matter. But there is one Hollywood touch. The theft follows the Thursday premiere at the festival of The Bling Ring, the movie that follows a ring of teens addicted to the five-finger discount,

Cheers, criminally,

Day 2 of the Cannes Film Festival and the talk turned to bling, the flashy, brand-conscious ethos explored in Sofia Coppola’s film The Bling Ring based on the true misadventures of a group of Southern California teenagers who decide to live the good life the old-fashioned way, by stealing it.

But I’ll tell you what the real bling of this festival is — the pink press badge of which I am now a proud owner.

Yes, friends, I am living the Vie en Rose. As in Access Rose, not to be confused with the poor souls in Access Bleu, (blue badges, natch) or, quelle horreur, Access Denied.

This being France it took a bit of doing to get that credential, a feat which would not have been possible without the help of several people and the constant encouragement of my friend the Trained Observer. Email followed email which resulted in rejection which resulted in more emails until, finalement, all that was required was a photo.

Do you realize that not all that long ago that would have been a deal-breaker entailing as it did a photographer, darkroom, overnight mail, etc.? Instead of which the Trained Observer took a quick snap of me with my iPhone, and with a swoosh of my outbox my mission was accomplished,

This is why I can’t get too worked up over the good old days.

To pick up my badge I had to stand in a serious line. But that turned out OK because I was next to a director, Fares Raphael Cachoux, here with his short film, “The Dog.”

“Is it about a dog?” I asked, ever the brilliant conversationalist. “No,” he said, “it’s about the Syrian revolution.”

This is something I like about Cannes. On the one hand you have crazy, over-the-top parties for big movies like Great Gatsby on the other you have guys like Cachoux, whose movie was shot with a digital camera that fit into his modest backpack.

Badge in hand, I made my way to the Bling Ring press conference where director Coppola and star Emma Watson gave thoughtful answers to a series of questions. The former Hermione Granger was the bright light of the session and won everyone over as she joked about the joys of being able to ad lib after years of having to stick to her lines “because people know them by heart pretty much.”

Looking around the room filled with stars and journalists from all over the world, I couldn’t help thinking: Michelle, we’ve come a long way from covering night cops in Wichita Falls, Texas.

Then the Trained Observer and I and our pink badges nipped across the street for a much-needed sandwich from McDonald’s.

Because that is how we roll.

Cheers, exclusively.

Get ready to be impressed, people. In addition to my stellar career history of reporter, secretary, Santa’s elf and fry cook, I now boast a new title: personal assistant.

Specifically, I’m assisting my good friend the Trained Observer, that talented international correspondent who some of you may remember from our London adventures last year.

The scene this time around is the French Riviera, the azure setting (at least until the predicted rains set in) of the annual Cannes Film Festival.

Day One began as all days should begin by the personal assistant getting coffee. I drank most of it since my need was great, but it’s the thought that counts. Then we popped around to the rental car place to pick up a vehicle. I proposed renting one of the Bentleys or Ferraris on offer, but the Trained Observer who can be a little conservative at times chose a Clio. Whatever that might be.
Since this was a French agency the transaction required about 15 minutes of rapid talking and a fair amount of shoulder-shrugging. But eventually off we went down the A8 to Cannes, where the Trained Observer was due for a shoot with an American TV network.

The first hitch came when we ran into hideous traffic; Cannes’ civic officials have decided to greet the festival by tearing up every road in town. Being psychic, I could tell what was coming and bluntly blurted, “Don’t even think of getting out and leaving me to park this thing.” Not really textbook PA stuff I admit, but in my defense allow me to point out it was a stick shift. A French stick shift.

The second hitch came when we finally found a parking space. The Trained Observer smartly maneuvered Clio to a stop and then went to switch off the ignition. Problem: No ignition. We both stared at the steering column and its missing key. Then we saw a key ring dangling from a slot in the dash and pulled it out, discovering it was attached to a black plastic card that looked like it controlled the locks. Awesome, except the car was still running. We might have been there still except that I suddenly noticed a round button marked “Start/Stop.” It felt a bit like sampling the “Drink Me” bottles in Alice in Wonderland, and we all know how that turned out, but I pressed it anyway and, lo, the car stopped.

Score one for the personal assistant,

The shoot was held on the Croisette, the crescent-shaped street hugging the Cannes waterfront and my plan was to stand ready with the comb and compact and then quietly fade away. But that plan was foiled when the producer beckoned me over. It turned out someone was needed to hold the reflector, a round white shield that gives a boost to the light.

Did I mention that I have weak little T. Rex arms? And did I further mention that the wind was blowing fit to bust and trying to wrestle the reflector out of my grasp?

A tense 10 minutes followed with my biceps or whatever it is up there shrieking in agony. But the code of the PAs is strong and I am proud to say I kept my banner, or rather, reflector, flying.

After that we went to the Majestic hotel and had $30 club sandwiches washed down by $15 Coca Lights (Diet Coke).

So far, I’d have to say PA doesn’t quite measure up to Santa’s elf (Chief Elf, actually, I was promoted due to superior elfing skills). But it has the fry cook/secretary thing beat hollow.

Cheers, assistingly.

Barreling down the rutted, stony track, my heart in my mouth, another part of my anatomy bouncing up and down on a bicycle seat from the spring line of Torquemada Sporting Goods, I couldn’t help asking myself: Why, Michelle, why?

It had begun as such a modest proposal. Would I like to bicycle through vineyards in Rioja? Well, certainly, I would. Perhaps I could have remembered that I ride a bike about once a year, and then not very well, but one doesn’t want to be a wet blanket when visiting one of the world’s great wine regions. Besides, I had visions of spinning lazily along a quiet country lane on one of those bikes that look like La-Z-Boys on wheels.

As it turned out I was outfitted with something a tad more rugged. Naturally, the first thing I did was gouge my left calf on the pedal or gears or some sticky-outy thing,

“You’re bleeding,” pointed out another member of the group, and indeed I was which held us up a bit as our kindly leader found some gauze and antiseptic and mopped me up.

But what do a pint or two of blood amount to? Plenty more where that came from so off we pedaled through the narrow streets of the town of Haro — sunbaked sandstone buildings nestled into folds of green — and out into the countryside.

There was a slight hitch as I tried to figure out the gears which theoretically could be changed by pushing a lever with one’s thumb while pedaling. In practice, one’s thumb had to be a lot stronger than mine so I decided whatever gear the bike was in was the gear the cycling gods wanted me to be in.

Note to self: I don’t think the cycling gods like me all that much.

“It won’t be hilly will it?” I asked. No, there’s just one hill was the reply. Which was technically true, but only because the entire ride was ONE, LONG, DAMNED HILL.

Note to cycling gods: The feeling is mutual.

And that, friends, is how I ended up flying down the aforementioned track, mountain* biking for the first time at the ripe old age of … ripe.

Spanish words I learned: collina (hill), coche (car), peligro (danger), sangre (blood).

English words I taught: censored, censored, whoa, really censored,

How was it? A blast. I mostly walked up the hills and occasionally walked down them when my nerve gave out, but it was still a beautiful way to enjoy a beautiful area.

The scenery was fantastic, vines highlighted with bright green spring leaves and long vistas of darker green fields set against snowcapped mountains. And the stop at a picnic table loaded with salty, fatty snacks and chilled white and rosado Beronia wines (my host for the trip) was quite delightful.

So, if you happen to be in Haro, I would highly recommend checking out a bike tour. Just limber up that thumb and don’t omit the sunscreen.

Oh, and here’s a bonus vocabulary word that may come in handy post-ride: cojin. That would be Spanish for cushion.

Cheers, sportily.

*OK, if you want to be all literal about it, it was more like moderate slope biking, but why ruin a good story with facts?

VINECDOTE VITALS:

What: Ojasport
Where: Linares Rivas 44, Haro, Es. Tel. 34 607449650 www.facebook.com/turismoactivojasport

The TSA had planned on relaxing some of its rules, including the ban on non-locking blades that are less than 2.36 inches long and no more than 1/2 inch wide. They also were allowing toy bats, billiard cues, ski poles, hockey sticks, lacrosse sticks and two golf clubs. The rationale was that this will streamline procedures and give agents time to look for bigger hazards.

Unions representing flight attendants weren’t happy with the changes and neither was Congress, which sent a letter signed by 133 members from both parties asking the TSA to hold off on the new rules, set to take effect April 25, until they had gotten more input.

Yes, as a matter of fact that is the same Congress whose inability to arrive at a workable budget has led to automatic cuts at the FAA resulting in major airport delays.

I don’t really have a dog in this hunt. I have never felt the need to travel with my own special corkscrew, particularly since you are no longer allowed to carry wine on board.  And I suppose in a pinch I could make do with the regular, no-blade corkscrews which never were banned despite what you may have heard to the contrary. I thought TSA Administrator John Pistole made a good argument that while some of these items could be dangerous, they’re not a huge threat considering the changes that have been made since the 9/11 attacks. On the other hand, it’s also true that it’s good to get the opinions of front-line people before making changes.

It’ll be something to think about during my next flight delay.

Related posts:

TSA OKs corkscrews in carry ons

The last vintage wine ad we brought you was Orson Welles getting very enthusiastic about the Paul Masson wine he was advertising. Today’s offering is completely different, James Mason advertising Thunderbird wine.

The suave British actor appears to be quite sober and possibly mentally composing a sharp memo to whatever agent let him in for this. “It has a very unusual flavor,” he says of the fortified, cheap white wine that was once wildly popular but is now rarely to be found.

I feel like the mustache is a mistake.

Bonus fact: Did you know that Mason, star of such movies as “A Star is Born” (the good one with Judy Garland) and “North by Northwest, also wrote a book with his wife, Pamela, called, “The Cats in Our Lives?”

Cheers, cattily.

I’m not going to be spending April in Paris, but I do have this slideshow
from last June where I spent a terrific week in the French capital with my friend, Dana.

The great thing about Paris, more so than London or New York, is it was exactly the way I expected it to be. We’d emerge from a Metro station and boom! There was the Arc de Triomphe looking terrifically triumphant.*

But not everything was precisely as I had envisioned. Here’s the stereotype scorecard:

French women are thin and chic: Yes. Yes, they are.

The streets are paved with cafes/bistros serving delicious, reasonably priced food: Yes, again. (But true confession, we did save a few francs by supplementing said gastronomic delights with even cheaper sustenance from that international bistro, McDonald’s.)

Parisians are snotty: Not the ones we met. In fact, they couldn’t have been sweeter.

Highlights of our trip were, believe it or not, the sewer museum, a must-do, and, rather predictably but I can’t help it, the Eiffel Tower. I just could not get enough of that stunning piece of engineering. I thought I was seeing things when a few months later I found myself staring at the graceful Maria Pia bridge across the Douro in the Portuguese city of Oporto and thinking, Hmmm, that curved metalwork look awfully familiar. Turns out it was no coincidence; the bridge was designed by the firm of one Gustav Eiffel.

Travel. It really does broaden the mind.

Cheers, bon voyaging-ly

*My British self wants to make a joke about French military might here, but my Americanized self is having no part of that.

Related posts:

Going down under in Paris

Parisian Politesse

Eating at Bistro McDo’s

Parisian manners, an (arc de) triomphe of civility /Photo Michelle Locke

“I am sorry if i am inconveniencing you, but i have only very few people to run to now. i will be indeed very grateful if i can get a short term loan from you ($1,950). this will enable me sort our hotel bills and get my sorry self back home.” he wrote. “ I will really appreciate whatever you can afford in assisting me with. I promise to refund it in full as soon as soon as I return. let me know if you can be of any assistance. Please, let me know soonest.”

Mr. Vinecdote, who is very kind-hearted and does not have the level of skepticism I have built up from screwing around on the Internet all day  researching story leads, was wondering if he should make arrangements to wire some money. But I said to hold on a minute. Two things struck me as odd. One was the type font. Comic sans? Really, Chuck? I would have guessed Times New Roman.* The other issue was the fact that I had just passed Chuck working peacefully in his front yard as I took a neighborhood stroll.

Yes, this is  a scam that’s been making the rounds. It’s right up there with the kindly Nigerians who keep trying to help me get my hands on millions. But it’s a little more insidious because there’s enough information there to make you take a second look. What has actually happened is that your friend or neighbor’s email account has been  hacked, often an old one they don’t check on that much, and everyone on the contact list has been sent a plea for money to smooth over a difficult travel situation.

Don’t be taken in; hit delete, and if you have a way to contact the person without using the compromised account, let them know they’re being used in someone’s nefarious scheme.

Cheers, warily.

*Totally unrelated but if you are a font geek like me and have a high tolerance for strong language (sadly, also like me) check out this, the funniest thing ever written about typeface.

St. Paul’s Cathedral /Photo Michelle Locke

Looking for a novel approach to England’s capitol? Why not take a tour of literary London.

A good place to start is the newly refurbished Charles Dickens Museum at 48 Doughty St., once the home of the prolific author. If you’ve got the time, you nip around the corner to the The Foundling Museum which combines some works of art with a detailed history of what happened to destitute mothers and their babies in Victorian England. Dickens not only championed the cause of the poor and downtrodden in his books, he worked with the hospital to improve the lives of the real-life children as well. One of the exhibits is a copy of his essay, “Received, a Blank Child,” (blank was the space where officials would fill in male or female).

From the Dickens museum, head south on Doughty St. and turn left on Roger St. to get to Gray’s Inn Rd., which takes you past the Gray’s Inn law offices where Dickens once clerked.  Continuing past the offices you can turn left on Holborn, which becomes Newgate Street, and then turn left on Old Bailey, site of the infamous Newgate Prison, which was destroyed at the turn of the 19th century and now home to the Central Criminal Court.

Stay south on Old Bailey and you will run into Ludgate Hill, turn left and you’re in Fleet Street, once the heart of the newspaper business. Turn right and you’re headed for St. Paul’s Cathedral, featured in a number of Dickens books includingDavid Copperfield. Hit St. Paul’s at 5 p.m. and you can sit and listen to the beautiful evensong service for free. (But you can’t make the sightseeing rounds; that’s for non-worshipping hours and costs money.)

Staying on Ludgate Hill, which becomes Cannon St., takes you to King William St. Turn right and you’re on London Bridge, where Nancy met with Mr. Brownlow to conspire for Oliver’s safety. In the 1968 movie, “Oliver!” Nancy was killed on the bridge steps by the brutal Bill Sykes. In the book, she’s killed at home. Fair warning, this isn’t the London Bridge of Dicken’s time. To find that you’ll have to go to Lake Havasu City, Ariz., where it was relocated, piece by piece, more than 40 years ago. The bridge that currently spans the Thames is from ye ancient 1973.

Once you’ve crossed the bridge, look for the George Inn on your left. This is one of the many, many pubs that Dickens is said to have visited and is mentioned in “Little Dorrit.” This building, the last remaining galleried coaching inn in London, is a replacement, too, built after a fire destroyed the previous inn. But not to worry, history buffs. It’s new as in, built in 1676.

I won’t lie. The meat pie and beer that I had at the George were OK but not  gastronomically memorable. But sitting at an old wooden table in the room where Dickens and co. once had coffee and talked over the news of the day? Unforgettable.

VINECDOTE VITALS:

CHARLES DICKENS MUSEUM:  48 Doughty St.,http://www.dickensmuseum.com. Monday-Sunday, 10 a.m.-5 p.m. Adults, 8 pounds ($12.40 U.S.).

ST. PAUL’S CATHEDRAL, St. Paul’s Churchyard,http://www.stpauls.co.uk/. Monday-Saturday, 8:30 a.m.-4:30 p.m. (last admission, 4 p.m.) Adults, 15 pounds ($23.40).

GEORGE INN: 77 Borough High St.,http://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/george-inn/. Monday-Saturday, 11 a.m.-11 p.m., Sundays, noon-10:30 p.m.