Well friends, off we go to embark on adventure once more, this time with Volume 2 of Garance in Coacheland the series of episodes as epic as it is never ending, and since I’ve got an hour to kill at JFK, you won’t go deprived another day.

So remember where we left off. Here we are at Coachella… No access to any kind of locomotion. I’m as white as a turnip with my two coats of SPF 100*. I forgot my denim cut-offs which is a mortal sin in Coachelland, and most importantly, most importantly, I don’t have a Multipass VIP.

I only have a VIP pass. Poor little me.

The second Pierre from Lacoste gave me the pass, I swear, I thought they mistook me for Eddie Barclay****. But I mean c’mon, I’m human. I saw it said VIP on the pass and my eyes shot out of my head like the Coyote after Road-runner and my tongue shot out and rolled on the floor I was so shocked by my own importance.

But then it was time to go to the festival, and when I got to the entrance, they wanted to take my camera away from me. “But I’m VIP!” giving them my almost tearful eyes.

Yes, but you don’t need a VIP pass for that. You need a media pass. The green one.

Oh well. So later on, relieved of my camera, I wanted to follow all my friends to the Artists Village and they all filed in. Except me. “But I’m VIP.” I said to the guy at the door in my most persuasive little voice.

Yeah, but to get in here, you don’t need to be VIP, you need the Artist pass. The orange one.

And then later on, relieved of my friends that I didn’t want to have to deal with my cruel destiny as a music peasant (“You go ahead, I have some stuff to attend to in the VIP area. Eddie Barclay for goodness’ sakes!), off I went to the VIP Space just to have a drink or something before Robyn’s concert.

I followed the advice of one of the info stations at Coachella*****, and walked for what must have been a quarter hour to find my holy-grail when suddenly I came across two friends of mine. We gave each other big hugs and they said to me, “Where you off to?”

“Yeah, I’m looking for the VIP area, and I’m dying I’m so thirsty,” I said.

And that’s when they said to me, “But you’re ALREADY in the VIP area!”

Right then as I turned around that’s when i realised. I saw that yes, indeed, we were encircled by barricades, like every place that is supposed to make people feel really important. Oddly enough, there were tons more familiar faces around here (Ah! Look at all these New Yorkers! These Parisians! Such snobs with their VIP passes) and I remembered that at some moment of my looooooong journey, I must’ve shown my bracelet to a security guard.

But I should add to my defense, a VIP area with 10,000 people (yes), I’ve never seen that before.

So yeah, after that, relieved of any and all illusion of my own VIP importance, I cracked up a little and decided to go have a glass of wine at the bar…


Of course, but in order to serve you wine, you need the alcohol pass, darling. The green one.

I shit you not. It’s true. Hey, we’re in the USA!!! You don’t mess with the law! How else would they know that I’m not 17 and a half? OF COURSE YOU COULD CONFUSE ME WITH A TEENAGER, what did you think?

So fast forward an hour later, I had my alcohol pass and my glass of wine in hand.

Okay, it was time. Time to stop with all this BS and with all my pass troubles and just throw myself into the music. Nooooo seriously, it’s a music fest, I mean, you’re supposed to find new artists, put yourself in a crowd, sing in unison, forget your daily life!!! It’s not for hanging out in the VIP area with all the people you see all year round!!!***** Time to come back to my rebel soul!!! My inner outsider!!! Reconnect with the world of music!!! Smoke a joi…

Ah yeah, seriously, the guy next to me had a joint so strong I thought I was going to faint. No weed for me.

Time to go the Robyn concert that my friend so strongly recommended.

What timing! Right that second I got a text from some friends telling me to join them at the Robyn concert. “We’re right at the front of the stage, on the left.”

And just like a puppy to its lost owner, I hopped on over right where I was supposed to with my tongue hanging out******.



Yes, to get into the front of the stage area you need a front of the stage pass. The brown one.

I’m not kidding. It’s all true. There’s a Coachella experience reserved only for front-of-the-stage people. It’s a little barricaded off area with a little entrance.


So fast-forward, I was there with my friends, but on the outside of the barricades. Ridiculous.

(As for Robyn? Honestly, a little weird as well, I thought. You?)

On that note, my flight is about to leave (ooooohhh, you’ll never guess where I’m going!!! Somewhere you REALLY need a VIP pass)(Okay, yeah, now I think you’ve figured it out).

Wait wait, before I go, I have to tell you you this…

The next day, dissolved were any illusions I might have had and still as white as a radish, I used a measly three of my neurons (the others were resting, remember that I had slept two hours the day before because of the crowded parking lot) to give my friend my camera who said she could get it in.

The most intelligent microscopic sparkle of intelligence of the entire festival.

And that’s how, my dear friends, for the first time of my life, after taking one, yes ONE single photo inside the pearly gates of the festival, I got kicked out. It was two guys scarier than Beyoncé’s body guards. They were undercover security guards. Punks. They were the Coachella CIA hunting cameras with no pro pass*******. No puppy dog eyes exist that could’ve convinced them to let me stay.

Yep, I was exiled from Coachella.

But no worries, I got back in. Without my camera, mind you. I know better than to cross the Coachella CIA twice.

I suppose now I have to do a last post about how awesome Coachella really is after you get past all the mutli VIP pass stuff. Honestly, it’s great.

As for the style photos I didn’t end up getting at Coachella, you didn’t really want them too bad, did you? (Crying puppy eyes your way)


*Some people say I exaggerate.

*** And this just shows how disconnected I am from the music industry. Who’s the new boss man in the music world? Besides Jay-Z?

**** The festival is in the middle of an Oasis, it’s more beautiful than a spa and better organized than an airport. There are three security checkpoints to get in and guides to help you around. It’s truly a well oiled machine.

*****Ah yes, I was alone. So my inner voices won over.

****** I have to add this too, that I have a whole bunch of friends (2, but whatever) who got their cameras in without a media pass. But what do you expect? With only three neurons firing, I was in a tough spot, and it’s in the tough spots that I start firing off puppy dog eyes. Bark bark! Pathetic.)

Translation : Tim Sullivan.