Never Check Your Bags

Last year I was a Cannes Film Festival virgin, an embarrassing status that I made every effort to conceal, in vain.
My first mistake was checking my luggage on the flight to Cannes or rather, Nice; you’d think Air France would have a hard time losing someone’s bag between Paris and Nice yet they did. While my boyfriend and his boss were nervously pacing the area by the baggage claim, I filed a Missing Bag complaint.
Later, on the phone, I was informed that my bag had stayed in Paris – ooops. I cried, I begged, I threatened but the sentence remained the same: delivery would not take place before 9pm. “But you don’t understand!” I screeched “They’re screening the Da Vinci Code at 7! Everything is in my suitcase,” I whined “What am I going to wear?”
Definitely not the jeans, Converse All Stars and Petit Bateau t-shirt I was wearing. At 5pm, my boyfriend and I, cursing at Air France, made a mad dash for Cannes’ shopping area where our hysteria durably traumatized a number of easy-going salespeople. I ended up snatching a black, pleated Joseph skirt and a pair of red Jaime Mascaro flats – fortunately, I was wearing a narrow Yohji Yamamoto jacket that was classy rather than red-carpet-ready but at that point anything that didn’t scream laid-back seemed just perfect.
We literally ran up Palais des Festivals’ mythical, red-carpeted stairs, my hair unbrushed and my brow sweaty.
It did end up being a magical evening. Film buffs from all over the world would give me a sorry look during the rest of the week, not because of my austere Opening Night garb, but rather because I shamelessly confessed that yes, I had enjoyed the Da Vinci Code. I had.
This year, no bags will be checked. We’re taking the train.