Travel Blog

Last month I received an e-mail that read: "On behalf of Andy Valmorbida, we invite you to honor artist Raphael Mazzucco and Executive Editors Jimmy Iovine and Sean 'Diddy' Combs with a presentation of works from their new book, Culo by Mazzucco and dinner at Mr. Chow at the W South Beach."

So Friday evening I put on my black velour sportcoat and drove down to South Beach. The doors to the restaurant had not yet opened when I arrived at 8, so I struck up a conversation with a man who, it turned out, was a photographer working for the Times of London. Of course, I thought: the British have long had a fascination with bums.

When the doors finally opened, a seemingly endless stream of people flowed in. Immediately I felt less honored for having received an invitation. I found a familiar face, that of a woman met once at another event, standing near a large photograph of three naked women walking along a beach away from the camera.

Sara and her friends invited me to sit at their table, from where we watched the steady stream of guests. Adrien Brody walked past, looking, except for the sneakers, like a caricature by Max Beerbohm. I gave him an acknowledging nod, which he ignored, just as Alan Arkin had done when filming Marley and Me in the Sun-Sentinel newsroom in 2008. This must be something all actors learn.

Chris Bosh walked by on the other side, and gamely exchanged a high-five with one of our tablemates. There was still no sign of Mr. Combs, though the flow of bodies did not abate. A kind of gauntlet now existed between our table and the crowd at the bar.

A flutter of activity at the entrance signaled the arrival of Paris Hilton. After a few minutes, she came down the gauntlet, talking on her cellphone. Keeping with the theme of the evening, I leaned back slightly so that, as she squeezed past, her culo brushed the sleeve of my sportcoat. It was encased in a short black skirt and, though it lacked the grandeur of the J Lo or Kardashian backside, it produced a moment I will always remember.