On the eve of the Monaco Grand Prix, Lewis Hamilton is sitting in the McLaren Mercedes team paddocks, trying to explain what goes through his head — and what doesn't — while idling his MP4-23 on the starting line. "My mind is completely clear, everything goes quiet, and my heart rate drops," says the 23-year-old golden boy of Formula One. "I'm just ready for the lights, and then…boom." But for all his focus, if there's anywhere on the F1 circuit that could drive him to distraction, it's Monte Carlo: There's the crowded harbor where Lance Armstrong, Kate Hudson, and Petra Nemcova are partying aboard the 311-foot yacht Indian Empress, the Sea Lounge hosting Jay-Z and Beyoncé, the pit lanes filled with autophiles like Quentin Tarantino, and of course the Prince Albert II royal cocktail circuit with Naomi Campbell, Tamara Mellon, and sultans of sport Boris Becker and Michael Schumacher.
But of all the parties in the world's most expensive and otherwise irrelevant principality, one of the least cheesy is thrown the night before the race by Israeli tycoon Benny Steinmetz and Quintessentially Events on the quadruple-decker yacht RM Elegant. As guests fluent in business (billionaires Stelios Haji-Ioannou and Lakshmi Mittal), pleasure (Lady Victoria Hervey), and all of the above (Flavio Briatore) quaff champagne and dance to D.J. Donna D'Cruz, conversation inevitably turns to the event that's brought us all here. "There are two types of Formula One fans," Stelios says. "The people who love Ferrari, and everyone else. It's a cult." (Whether it's cult or culture, Ferrari and, for that matter, other top teams like BMW Sauber and McLaren each spend $400 million a year in pursuit of the F1 crown, nearly twice as much as, say, the New York Yankees' annual payroll.)
On race day I end up at a viewing party in a penthouse pied-à-terre belonging to one of Britain's richest and most press-shy businessmen. But more extraordinary than the view of the harborside starting line (and the crowd of Eurocialites on the balcony) is the sonic scream of nearly two dozen 700-horsepower engines revving below as soon as the drivers — led by Ferrari's Felipe Massa and Kimi Räikkönen — jump off the line and wind around the track. Imagine if a pack of underfed mosquitoes flew into your ear canals and got trapped there, and you can begin to understand the racket. With rain pouring down, the race is more like a demolition derby — Red Bull's David Coulthard and Toro Rosso's Sébastien Bourdais collide so badly that their cars need to be lifted off the track by giant cranes — and before long guests are betting on how many of the 20 drivers will actually finish. Six? Seven? For the next couple of hours, Hamilton, showing grit and guts beyond his years, hangs tough and manages to eke out a dramatic win, his first Monaco GP victory and one that will remain among his most memorable — and dangerous — ever.
At the sight of the checkered flag, all the boats in the harbor sound their foghorns in profundo approval, and I scramble down to the McLaren motor home, where Hamilton's family, teammate Heikki Kovalainen, and the pit crew are wearing their bright orange victory jerseys — much cooler than the Masters' green blazer — and jubilantly soaking in Veuve Clicquot with their champ. You don't even have to be European to appreciate the glory of it all. For all of F1's globotrash charm, the whole celebration — P. Diddy hiding behind sunglasses and a bodyguard; Nicole Scherzinger of the Pussycat Dolls perched on Hamilton's arm; and the loudspeakers blaring "Car Wash" — is made in America. A different flavor of Americana — Southern hospitality supreme — is on display at the wedding of former Tennessee congressman Harold Ford Jr. and Emily Threlkeld, an executive at Carolina Herrera and the stepdaughter of ex-Morgan Stanley swami Anson Beard. With upward of 350 guests from the politico-celebrity industrial complex filling the Vizcaya Museum in Coconut Grove, Florida, including George Lucas, Vivi Nevo, and Lawrence Bender, a more-is-merrier mentality reigns, from the number of groomsmen and bridesmaids (26!) to the six straight hours of eating, drinking, and conga-lining. All the while, the 38-year-old groom — head of the Democratic Leadership Council, vice chairman at Merrill Lynch, and MSNBC mouth-for-hire — works the crowd with the skill of a battle-tested pol who will someday run again (Tennessee governor? New York senator?). As one of Ford's confidantes tells me by the bar: "I've seen Harold and Barack Obama speak at Southern churches. Barack is good, but Harold is even better. He can't not run."
But Ford also has a lesser-known skill set: unholy dance moves. Taking to the stage overlooking Biscayne Bay, he leads the crowd in a dance called "The Bird" — a Morris Day classic that Ford perfected for a talent show at St. Alban's — requiring a flapping of the arms and sliding of the feet that would look absurd if attempted by anyone else. "I grew up on Michael Jackson and the Jackson 5," Ford explains. "I also learned some moves from my grandmother." Whatever the source, it seems to be rubbing off on the rest of the crowd, and the bad dancing per capita is way less than any other wedding I've ever attended. No one needs to tell these people to use less shoulders and more hips.
Watching from the sidelines is Nevo, who's known Ford since they met at a party in New York years ago. "I never go to weddings, never," he says, "but Harold is a dear friend." The 40-something Israeli venture capitalist and international man of mystery — who recently got engaged to Memoirs of a Geisha actress Ziyi Zhang — is busy planning his own wedding in Italy later this year, the rare sort of affair that could ever rival these nuptials: "I'm going to fly all my friends to Capri." If he's lucky, maybe Ford will bring The Bird.
