If I had to make a list of my least favorite things, these three would be on the top: sunburns, large groups, and lines that snake through metal barricades. But perhaps the thing I like the least – and something that my therapist (if I had a therapist, that is) would have a field day with – is missing out. So, when my friend Poppy Delevingne invited me to celebrate her bachelorette party, or hen party as the English call it, at the Coachella music festival, I vacillated on the subject. I’ve never done Coachella before. All those girls in tiny denim shorts and boys with farmers tans, a large portion of which seem to be under the influence of some mind altering substances? Not for me. But, I rationed, is this my one chance to experience Southern California’s largest outdoor music festival? After all, every year I get a little older, and no one wants to see the creepy old dude rocking out in the back of the lawn.
So, I went. And I’m happy I did. My first and most likely last Coachella experience was a rewarding one. It combined the joys of celebrating the last few moments of unmarried bliss of a close friend with the enjoyment of some of Pop music’s biggest acts. Beyonce made a surprise appearance when her sister Solange performed. Pharrell wore the hat. Again. I fell in love with Lorde. Again. Outkaste was pretty good. Calvin Harris was really good. Alexander Wang’s party had a set from Iggy Azaela, followed by Major Lazer; Jeremy Scott’s party was in Frank Sinatra’s old Palm Springs pad and I had a dance off with a freshly bobbed and blonded Zoe Kravitz. And, oh, my friend’s bachelorette party was like the adult version of my favorite high school pool party: We ate too much, drank spiked punch, played on inflatable animals in the pool, unintentionally stole each other’s sunglasses, and didn’t get enough sleep. In fact, I plan on recovering from the weekend just in time for Poppy’s wedding next month.
Captions, from top: Cara, Poppy and Sienna at the bachelorette party; Alexander Skarsgaard and me; sunset in Palm Springs; Michael Polish and Kate Bosworth; a live set from Major Lazer; Rosie, Fergie and me; nightfall at the festival; Poppy’s crown, which I stole (sorry, Poppy); me and Kate; Michael, Noah and Alex; Conrad and his girlfriend with Petey, Gabriella and Gaby; poolside giggles; Cara about to leap on an inflatable; Caroline de Maigret at Alex’s party; Lily and Poppy showing off their locks on the dancefloor; Rita Ora at Frank Sinatra’s house; and a final shot on the way home