Cannes

A jaunt through Villa Ephrussi de Rothschild is like wandering through the fevered dream of an eccentric heiress who decided Versailles wasn't quite flashy enough. Perched audaciously on the lush spine of Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat, this pink-and-white confection offers nine gloriously over-the-top gardens-each themed garden outdoing the last, like some horticultural reality show gone wild. Go early, preferably just after opening at 10 am, before the cruise-ship hoards descend wielding selfie sticks like medieval weapons. Plan ahead a week or two-advance tickets help you breeze past lines with enviable smugness. Budget around 20 euros per person (plus a few extra for an espresso or pastry on the villa's terrace, overlooking waters so blue they look Photoshopped). And bring sunglasses, sunscreen, and a capacity for ironic delight-because where else will you find synchronized fountains performing to classical music, a Japanese garden more Japanese than Kyoto, and a once-private residence that hosted parties Gatsby himself would envy? Trust me: even if ornamental hedges and Rococo salons aren't your thing, strolling these grounds is worth it for the anecdotes alone-after all, how often do you get to casually drop into conversation, "Oh, yeah, just spent the morning at a billionaire baroness's pastel palace"?

Just a short boat-ride away from the sun-drenched glamour of Cannes' yacht-infested harbor lies Île Sainte-Marguerite-your chance to trade paparazzi for pine trees, and champagne flutes for whispers about that most famous masked prisoner (no, not Leo DiCaprio, but close). The island is best explored early, before tourist hordes descend; grab the first ferry around 9 a.m. for maximum solitude, minimal irritation, and an Instagram-ready golden light. Budget around €20 for the return boat fare (though the stories you bring back will be priceless). Pack sensible shoes, sunscreen, water, and a sense of irony-because yes, you're willingly visiting a historic penal fortress on your Riviera vacation. Stroll quietly among fragrant eucalyptus and pines, or pause at the austere cell where the enigmatic "Man in the Iron Mask" spent years silently plotting escape (or wondering if room service existed yet). While historians argue over his true identity, you can comfortably debate whether his mask was iron, velvet-lined steel, or just an elaborate PR stunt by Louis XIV. Either way, a morning spent wandering this peaceful Mediterranean outpost is more rewarding-and certainly more intriguing-than another overpriced martini on La Croisette. You'll return sun-kissed, enlightened, and mysteriously smug: after all, every great travel tale deserves a touch of intrigue, even if you have to boat to a former prison island to find it.

If your idea of fun is wedging yourself between a manicured sea of designer gowns, paparazzi elbow-jabs, and sunburned film buffs passionately dissecting auteur cinema, then the annual Cannes Film Festival is precisely your brand of glamorous chaos. Every May, La Croisette transforms from a charming boulevard into a throbbing artery of ambition, gossip, and audacious cinematic indulgence. Sure, Hitchcock once lingered here, and Grace Kelly's elegance still haunts the hotel hallways, but these days you're just as likely to spot an Instagram influencer desperately angling for perfect lighting beside a bemused George Clooney impersonator. Book your hotel at least six months early, or you'll be bunking in Nice and commuting in daily like a caffeinated extra. Plan on evening premieres-everyone worth their oversized sunglasses knows the real buzz (and the most outrageous photo ops) begin after sunset. Budget generously; your wallet will hemorrhage euros faster than the festival jury sheds credibility. Pack sunglasses, sunscreen, sharp attire, a healthy dose of skepticism, and perhaps a convincing fake press badge for strategic bar access. Ultimately, even if the closest you get to cinematic greatness is accidentally photobombing Quentin Tarantino's elbow, the stories alone-joyously absurd, star-studded, and scandalously overpriced-are worth the price of admission.

A night at Hotel Martinez isn't merely lodging-it's an unapologetic plunge into a gleaming, indulgent absurdity that would make Gatsby smile knowingly and Hemingway shake his head. Perched glamorously along La Croisette, this iconic Art Deco palace opened its doors in 1929, swiftly becoming a magnet for cinematic glitterati and disreputable aristocrats alike. Arrive fashionably late afternoon, stroll the marble lobby as if you're vaguely important, and savor a cocktail on its storied terrace-an ideal vantage point for discreet celebrity-spotting and indiscreet gossip-gathering. Reservations here aren't casual impulses; book several months ahead and expect to budget at least €500 to €1,000 for a night in high season-but remember, extravagance is the point. Pack your sunglasses (to avoid celebrity recognition, naturally), your finest attitude, and a credit card tolerant of impulsive champagne orders. A night at Hotel Martinez may empty your pockets and encourage mildly questionable decisions, but afterwards you're left with a shimmering, slightly boastful memory-worth every centime, especially when recounted, years later, with generous embellishment.