Cannes (part 2)

(Originally written 3/5/2008)

As I lay in bed the next morning, looking at the cloudless sky from the
luxury of Room 461, I reflect that I'm finally where I've always wanted to
be, the place I go on a November Friday night when I've presented a complex
training session to unenthusiastic people, it's raining and I've got a
hundred miles to drive home. That's when my mind drifts to the South of
France, and hot weather. It's only taken me fifty-three years to get here...

Time to rise, though, there's a train to catch! Where would I like to lunch
on my birthday? Monaco, that's where. SNCF Cannes is ten minutes walk away,
or twenty minutes on legs that are still complaining about walking all
yesterday. At the station, I offer to get the tickets, because I've noticed
that my French is once again improving. The key point is that when I speak
French, French people no longer reply in English. Also, either the French
population has taken a collective decision to slow down their spoken
delivery, or I'm understanding more. And all through watching French TV at
the weekends, folks!

All goes well at the ticket window, until we hit my linguistic weakness -
numbers. I've got three return tickets to the right station in Monaco, but
when the smiling woman behind the glass tells me the price, I haven't got a
clue how much she wants. With Jenny's help, it turns out to be 46 euros,
which seems to compare well with public transport back in Britain.

We find the right platform, the train arrives, and whoopee! It's a
double-decker. Upstairs, then, because I've had a look at the route, and it
should be a picturesque one.

Actually, it's spectacular. The track runs along the coastline, sometimes
right next to the beach, and the journey offers glimpses of typically
orange-yellow Provencal style villas, pretty coves that are just starting to
fill with sunbathers, villages that cling to the side of the steep hills
that border the Cote D'Azur, olive groves, citrus trees and much more. The
view is only spoiled occasionally in towns where the train runs behind
graffiti-decorated blocks of flats, but you can't have everything.

Monaco Monte Carlo station is possibly the most futuristic transport hub
I've ever seen. It's inside a huge tunnel, and seems to be mainly made of
marble, glass and steel. This doesn't entirely come as a surprise to me;
after all, it's the only place I know where they have a chandelier in a
multi-storey car park. The only problem with the station is that it's a bit
difficult to work out which exit to take. There are maps, but it's not
immediately obvious which end of the very long platform contains the door we
want. After a few minutes, a consensus is agreed, and we leave the station
high above the town. A flight of steps leads downwards, so many that my
heart sinks when I think of having to climb them later.

There's a charming church at the bottom, and gracious, I know where I am!
We're at turn one, the starting grid is just down there, up that hill is
Casino Square where there's a jink to the left, then a big right. Yes,
anywhere in Monaco, if I can find a section of racetrack, I know exactly
where I am. It's better than any map.

Within ten minutes I'm lost.

See, when I planned this day, I took the F1 race into account. Monaco on F1
weekend is crazy, huge areas of the Principality are blocked off, partly for
the safety of spectators, partly to stop damfool drivers taking a wrong turn
and collecting a sudden Raikkenen in the towing hook (and, worse,
accidentally winning the race), but mainly to ensure that anyone who hasn't
bought a ticket cannot possibly catch even a glimpse of a F1 car. The
Automobile Club de Monaco begin to build the track two weeks beforehand, and
that's when the barriers start going up. This year's race is on 25th May, so
I reckoned we'd have no problems.

I'd forgotten about the Historic F1 Race that takes place on the 11th, which
is why we can't cross the road to look at the harbour because there's a
chain link fence in the way, and why we can't see the grid markings painted
into the road as we pass the start point. Never mind, here's the Rasscafe
(tight right and left that has to be driven perfectly, because the only real
passing opportunity is immediately next) and here's a dithering driver who's
not sure that he wants to turn off at this point, reverses without looking -
on the very Monaco track that hundreds of tourists want to drive around, for
goodness sake - and collides gently with a car behind. Oh, there's
entertainment here.

As blows seem unlikely to be exchanged, we move on, inspecting the yachts
that have moored here at a cost slightly in excess of a suite at the
Carlton. Some of them, if fitted with enough ordnance and painted grey,
could pass for small destroyers. I remind myself that yachts of this size
are conservatively priced at £10,000 per metre, unfurnished, and require a
year-round crew. For any nautically-inclined reader now thinking "Ah, but if
I won the lottery." - forget it. £50m might just get you into this game, but
most of your time would be spent memorizing the advice contained in Kerry
Katona's latest book, "Coping With Sneering".

A waterbus takes us across the harbour, to stairs up to the road that leads
to The Tunnel (get it badly wrong here and you'll be spreading carbon fibre
shards across the breadth of it, red flags immediately, if not black flags,
get the exit even slightly wrong and you'll be on the marbles with little
chance of getting The Chicane right, and that'll be at least one wheel
snapped off) where there are more stairs down to a marble-lined subway. The
subway leads to lifts that rise to the Opera House gardens, and more chain
link fencing. We're trying to get to Casino Square, the true heart of Monte
Carlo, and the reason why so many wealthy people desperately want to live
here. No, not because they want to gamble, but because the publicly-owned
Casino makes so much profit that His Serene Highness Prince Albert II does
not feel the need to levy any income tax on his subjects.

As we walk through the gardens, enjoying the sunshine and Jenny's rapid
identification of flowers that I'd previously only known as "plants", I
remark that we're strolling around some of the world's most expensive
building land. The number of parks and open spaces are an indication of how
wealthy the principality of Monaco is.

"Gosh, there's something going on!" says Jenny when we emerge from the
gardens. There certainly is. Casino Square is going on. There's a constant
stream of cars moving slowly through it on their tour of the F1 circuit,
none of them apparently likely to beat my time of 10 minutes 12.4
seconds (set some years previously), while some are stopping to discharge hopeful gamblers. Uniformed casino staff are opening doors and ushering people up the red-carpeted stairs, as crowds throng the square, cameras at the ready in case some celebrity should happen by. There's as much going on as there is at a West End film premiere, but the difference here is that it doesn't stop. It's like this all weekend, and nearly like this all week, too.

Time for lunch, I feel. There's always somewhere reasonable to eat, tucked
down a side street between the designer-label shops, because shop staff have
to eat as often as billionaires do, and they can't all afford turbot and
asparagus.

Later, having eaten both well and cheaply in a small café, Jenny and Mark
want to visit Casino Square again, because they can't quite believe that the
madness continues all day long. I wouldn't mind going back, either, because
I have fond memories of an ice-cream shop there. Accordingly, we retrace our
steps and while Jenny finds several places where she can take photos, Mark
and I admire the cars parked outside and around the Casino. We've already
lost count of the Aston Martins that have passed us, but here are Rolls
Royces, large Mercedes, Ferraris, Porches, Bentleys and my personal
favourite marque, a trident-badged Maserati. I'm greatly pleased to note,
though, that the car which is attracting the most attention, the one that
people are being photographed beside, is British. It's a blue Morgan Aero 8,
its flowing old-fashioned lines setting it apart from the hundreds of
thousands of pounds of assorted luxury conveyances on display.

Well, we've seen a lot of what Monaco has to offer, it's hot, it's crowded
and our feet hurt. Maybe we should get an ice-cream and head back to the
station? Well, why not. After all, there's all those stairs to climb, and
that's not something that's going to be accomplished without complaint.

In fact, sharp-eyed Jenny spots a lift near the pretty church, so our return
to the station is much easier than the descent. Then it's back onto a
double-decker train and fifty minutes of "I want to live right there",
"Wow, look at that place!", "Oh, that's pretty, isn't it?", "Look, there's
hardly anyone on that beach, yet it's so handy for those villas" and "OK,
Mark, we get it. You want to live on the Cote D'Azur."

Back at the Carlton, we have an hour or two to relax, and in my case, take a
bath. There's a selection of exciting bath products to try out, and a
Carlton Hotel Cannes bathrobe to wear.

Look, we've got a few minutes; let me show you round my room/s. There's no
need to knock on the door, just touch the doorbell and I'll be with you as
soon as I've tied this bathrobe a little more securely. The front door opens
onto a marble-flagged passage. The first door on your left is the toilet,
equipped with a phone for those important film deals that occur at the most
inconvenient time. Next on the left is the shower room with two showers -
the usual over the head variety and the flexible hose kind, no doubt for
reaching those parts other showers can't. At the end of the passage is the
bathroom, with washbasin complete with clever mixer-tap arrangement, large
mirror above it, shaving mirror extension, and the big, deep bath that fills
in what seems like seconds from taps that, when turned on, appear to have
been holding back the mighty rushing oceans.

OK, back up, because on the right of the passage is the bedroom. There's a
30-channel TV, a minibar that gives me the shudders every time I look at the
price list, a drawer full of glasses and a corkscrew - handy, that - and a
wardrobe that contains an iron, an ironing board, and the raincoat that I
foolishly brought with me. A full-length window provides a view of the back
of the hotel, and much-welcomed fresh air when opened. There's a very
comfortable bed that Keira Knightley might have slept in during a previous
film festival (hey, a boy can dream...) and a desk where the paraphernalia of
my laptop entertainment centre is spread out.

Oh, and here's the room service menu. It seems that pretty much anything can
be ordered at almost any time, from a simple cheese sandwich to a modest
banquet. I'm not joking, the menu is many pages long, and if there was
anything I really wanted to steal from the room, it was that menu. Yes, even
more than the gold-embroidered bathrobe, I desired that menu and wanted it
as my very own. Maybe I'll write to the manager of the Carlton and ask for
one when they replace them with new menus.

Right, that's the 50 cent tour, now off you go, I have a small party to
host. Mark and Jenny arrive, dressed to the nines, while I've changed into
the off-white linen suit I bought especially for wearing in France. The
champagne is opened and toasts are proposed - ideally, this should have been
on my balcony overlooking the sea, but never mind, eh?

It's seven o'clock, a restaurant awaits, and I believe that a little
sauntering is called for. Suitably refreshed by the champagne, we saunter
toward the harbour, passing the place where Napoleon came ashore during his
journey from Elba to Paris, while certain jolie filles whisper in my wake
"Cette homme, c'est le vrai Jacques la galette!" Or so I imagine.

We're not committed to any of the restaurants around the harbour, so we're
still checking menus as we go, and that's how we find La Potiniere (Fondee
en 1948). Hang on, this place has all we need, and it's closer to the
Carlton, being opposite the Palais des Festivals. We enter - "Un table pour
trois, monsieur?" "Oui, et trois Kirs." - study the menu further, and Jenny
and Mark wonder whether the dishes that seem to be vegetarian might have had
some meat product sneaked into them. Well, let's check, because Sandra's
here, keen as anything to take our order. "Mes amis sont vegetariane." I
start, and Sandra is happy to point out all the choices available. When she
turns to me, I fix here with a beady eye and point out firmly "Moi - je suis
carnivore." With a huge grin, she says in a conspiratorial manner "Moi,
aussi". As is so often my choice of birthday dinner, I order a blue steak
and chips, sadly not proper frites, but thick-cut chips. To my annoyance, as
I write this, I cannot remember what Jenny and Mark chose, but Jenny opens
an initial negotiation regarding her consumption of several of my chips
"that haven't touched the steak, and before you cut into the steak and blood
goes everywhere". I briefly wonder whether the chips are cooked in any form
of lard or dripping, but decide not to spoil her pleasure.

A bottle of Cotes de Rhone appears, and shortly afterwards, so does the food.
It's very simple and very nice indeed. The steak is exactly right, although
it doesn't bleed when cut. Pud? Oh, alright then, I could be persuaded
towards something made with chocolate. Ah, says Sandra, if it's chocolate I
like then there is just one choice possible; there are several desserts with
chocolate, but for the full chocolate experience, I should go with her
recommendation.

God bless her cotton socks, she's right. Ignore, if you will, that she's
picked up that it's my birthday and pushed a lit candle in the top of the
pud, the plate she places in front of me contains a chocolate fondant, a
shot glass of liquid chocolate and a ball of ice-cream that, oh mama, is
flavoured with thyme. Chocolate and thyme is a remarkable combination, and
if the genius who devised this dish were handy, I would wring his hand in
silent emotion. Silent, because my gob's full, obviously.

Coffee and brandy are not a choice, they're a necessity, but I want a
cigarette too. Leaving Mark to place the order, I slip outside and light up.
La Potiniere is in the Square Merimee, set back a little from the promenade,
and I have a little quiet moment to myself. Lord, but this is the life. I
really could be supremely happy around here, the weather is lovely, the
people are super-friendly, with a market like we saw yesterday I'd become an
even better cook, there are lots of little villages nearby where property
isn't truly expensive, I love the café culture attitude of the French, and,
truth be told, I really love the unhidden emotion that's everywhere, the joy
of life that causes people to shake hands and kiss each other when they
arrive in a bar, a shop, the office. If I were a better writer (better as in
being able to sell this sort of thing) I'd live here, eat salad for lunch
and grilled fish for dinner, and become slim and sylph-like in months. Ah,
but I like the wine, so cancel that sylph-like image. For now, though, it's
a glorious night, I'm in France, and tomorrow I'll still be in France. It
may be difficult for others to understand this, but it truly never gets any
better than right now, especially as there seems to be plenty of right now
available.

I join Jenny and Mark to be told that Sandra won't serve coffee until I've
returned, and shortly she bustles up with cups and glasses. Jenny has
ordered peppermint tea, and Sandra lifts the lid of the pot to show that
there are leaves of fresh mint swirling around inside. Knowing that I'll
never remember the name of the restaurant, I ask for a card, and Mark would
like one too. Sandra returns in seconds with cards for us both, but "for the
smoker" she also has a box of matches. She really is very observant, I was
standing in shadow.

Bill paid (thanks again, Jenny and Mark), we start back up the promenade,
some of us averting our eyes from easily the most horrible vehicle I've seen
all weekend, a stretch HumVee. We walk through a little park next to the
promenade, where there's a double-decker roundabout and other entertainment
for children, then on down the prom. There's one thing I haven't mentioned;
the pavement is illuminated by lights hidden in the promenade wall, so we're
strolling along a pink pathway... until, a few minutes later, the lights fade
to blue. It's a striking and very enjoyable effect.

Out on the pontoon again, to take the planned photos and video. The Carlton
is looking as gorgeous as ever, and I'm pleased and surprised that my
camcorder seems to be happy to capture the view. Maybe you'll see the
finished film one day, once I've got some editing software and learned how
to use it.

Hmm, I could go another coffee and cognac, anyone feel like joining me? Yes,
Mark does, although Jenny would prefer to go back to the room, so it's just
the two of us who return to the café we enjoyed on Thursday night. Being
boring business owners, we talk about a couple of projects we might be able
to collaborate on, a conversation that continues back in my room over a
bottle of something nice...