Island dreams of the first Curacao film festival

Imagined:
I arrive in Curacao and check into my luxurious hotel, not needing a nap because I suddenly have no jetlag (and also the cold I’ve had for a week has dissapeared on the flight!). I head straight out to meet my friends who run Rotterdam for a tropical cocktail on the beach at sunset (made with the famous local liqueur, not a Heineken that we usually share at the Doelen in freezing January). I catch enough of the sun so my pale wintery skin suddenly glows. We make our way to the packed cinema for Marley, the doc I’ve been dying to see since friends raved about it in Berlin. Then we head to the opening night party, where there’s loads of champagne and calorie-free canapes. Kevin Macdonald is thrilled to hear there is a trade journalist in the room and seeks me out to tell me lots of exclusive news on his new films. Then, a handsome yachtsman approaches and whisks me out on the dancefloor where I move especially gracefully to the island rhythms of the steel drum band.

Actual: Overslept and missed 5 am journey to make flight to Curacao, couldn’t be rebooked as all flights are full. Sat on sofa nursing cold and watching Don’t Tell The Bride whilst eating a frozen pizza and feeling sorry for myself.

Next year, I’ll set two alarms.

More soon on how the festival ACTUALLY went.

UPDATE, salt in the wounds in the form of a slideshow and story about the festival’s success.