First, the Kentucky Derby is nothing like it appears on television or in the movies, all Southern gentility and huge hats. Sure, there's some of that, and more suits than at most sporting events. But most of that niceness is up the heavily guarded Magic Escalator to the boxes of the super-rich. Most of the people at the derby are drunk and bulging out of shorts and T-shirts. Except on the infield, where mardi gras beads, tiny bluejean miniskirts, and shirtless guys prevailed. The parking lot was an ocean of broken glass.

I had not seen Mary Lea in six years. Mary Lea drove past the baggage claim and saw someone who looked like me, but 50ish and overweight. She gave a tentative, horrified wave. It wasn't me. (Of course not, I'm 29 and stunningly beautiful.) She launched into storytelling as soon as I got into the car and didn't let up for three fascinating days. She lives gloriously on words and cigarettes.

We visited her friend's house on the lake. The friend was out of town, but her wolf and giant rottweiller weren't. Apparently animal control regularly swings by just to make sure these two are penned up. Anyway, the key wasn't where it was supposed to be, so I broke into the screened porch so we could raid the cooler of Heineken. In the process I stabbed my finger with a rusty fishhook. And somewhere along the line lost my cell phone. And broke my sunglasses.

The next morning we got a late start, piling too many clothes into her dented BMW and heading south toward her family's farm and then Louisville, Kentucky. I thought when she mentioned that the farmhouse was "rustic" that she might be like those people who have a 2,000-square-foot "cottage" in the Hamptons. But no, the place was a genuine fishing cabin stuffed with outdoor furniture and with a gigantic stone fireplace. We passed kennels of howling huntin' dogs. We changed into our high heels and pearls there and I took these fabulous photos of Mary Lea (scroll down).