Last night I had a dream. We had been invited to the prince's gala. The elegant gold embossed invitation had my delicately hand written name on it.
My mind rushed: what to wear, which shoes, can I call Harry Winston and convince him to loan me some jewellery (just kidding!) AND I need to stop eating until then.
The European half in me knew this evening was to be bigger, better, more elegant than the Oscars. It symbolized the epitome of glamour.
The American side was determined to meet the guest of honour, a living legend whom my father had admired for decades for his great talent, his good looks, his utter dedication and his long-standing commitment.
In this dream we were sipping cocktails in the Royal palace's garden overlooking the Mediterranean sea watching the sun set while waiting for the prince and princess to arrive. The other guests were a mix of American socialites, Russian olearchs and European VIPs all wearing robes you usually only spot in magazines.
I was lucky to have a fairy godmother lend me a magical hand in choosing a exquisite dress, 12cm high heel shoes and seriously precious jewellery. I was to be Cinderella for one night.
Upon the arrival of the royal couple, we were to be seated in the stunningly decorated ambiance with purple and pink lighting flooding the palace's courtyard beneath a twinkling, starry sky. The beautiful flower arrangements placed on the white draped tables served as the grand setting for the delicious menu which started with "Profiterole au Caviar et Céleri" accompanied by "Sorbet Dom Pérignon" and ended with "Rose Princesse".
My fairy tale culminated with being introduced to the Hollywood legend. Like many legends, he started with some dubious achievements, robbing banks, stealing cars, getting drunk and dancing barefoot in the park but to me he will always be the romantic hero of Out of Africa.