The French Riviera - A tale of two cities
Part 1 of 2: Cannes
MANILA, Philippines - Sophie Marceau Topless. Everything I knew about the French Riviera (which roughly runs from Cannes to Nice to a bit east of Monaco), I learned from the movies. For example, in To Catch a Thief (1955, with Grace Kelly and Cary Grant) I learned that the Carlton Intercontinental is the hotel to stay at in Cannes. From La Cage Aux Folles (1978, with Ugo Tognazzi and Michel Serrault), I learned not to go to gay bars in St. Tropez. And from Joyeuses Paques (1984, with Jean-Paul Belmondo and Sophie Marceau), I learned that if you watch the movie really carefully you will see Sophie Marceau topless, with truly stunning, firm, beautifully shaped pectorals that will leave your eyes bulging (apologies to readers since this film is impossible to find, though there is still a copy, under lock and key, at Plantation Bay Resort & Spa).
Dozens if not hundreds of movies have been set in the French Riviera (or, as the French call it, the Cote d’Azur). Some of the things you learn from movies turn out to be true, and some of them don’t.
Take, for example, the Carlton. My first stop was Cannes, and I had decided to stay at this very hotel, where Grace Kelly seduced Cary Grant in the movie. My room at the Carlton was pretty good, even impressive (see picture) — large by European standards and elegantly furnished. However, and try not to be shocked — there was no seduction. No Grace Kelly.
The author would like you to know that he stayed at the Carlton, THE premier hotel in Cannes, where film stars and rich people stay. You, too, could afford to stay here if, like the author, you come when it is still wet and cold and occupancy is 20 percent. Ghost City. In fact, no people. During my stay in Cannes, some two weeks before the Film Festival, the town was darn near empty. In hindsight, this no doubt accounted for the fact that I was able to afford and get into the Carlton. It seems that Cannes is some kind of Twilight Zone, which stirs to life for the Film Festival, coasts for the rest of summer as rich people from Europe come for the Season, then peacefully hibernates for the seven months between September and April.
On my first day, it was raining buckets (another reason rich people don’t go to Cannes before the Film Festival). When I stepped out of the hotel to look for dinner, in half an hour of wandering I found only two restaurants open, and eventually picked the wrong one (but that is another story — wait for my article “Entrecôte and Fries — Adieu”). However, the following day, guided only by my Mephisto walking shoes, I discovered the perfect way to have lunch in Cannes.
A Sandwich and a Bench. The boulevard running along the bay is called La Croisette. On the long promenade beside the pebbly beach, there are kiosks selling food. Find Kiosk #7 (this is for real, so write it down; guidebooks should tell you useful stuff like this; you’re welcome) where you should buy a Suedois (swed-wa, a deli-style chicken sandwich) which is way better than what you will get at other kiosks, namely a Parisien (a thin slice of ham, a thin slice of cheese, a thick wad of butter, and two inches of French bread — you always know you’re in France if the butter is thicker than the ham). Add a Coke, then settle down on a bench by the beach, and watch beautiful people go by as you spend two hours eating the sandwich and jealously guarding your bench (it takes practice and self-control, let me tell you; bring potato chips and a candy bar, and go to the bathroom first).
The author’s room at the Carlton lived up to the hotel’s reputation. Conscious of his photographic skills, the author carefully draped his coat on the bed and MP3 player on the nightstand, lest someone claim that this is just a stock publicity picture. Not for the Light of Wallet. Cannes is not a place where you actually do anything (except, if you are Brad Pitt, pose for pictures); it is a place where you hang around and enjoy the heady sensation of looking at the same beach that rich people are looking at. But if you really must do some shopping — jot this down: the unimaginably expensive shops (the Loro Pianas and the Cartiers) are on La Croisette, facing the sea; the shops which are only outrageously expensive (the Villebrequins and the Paul & Sharks) are inland, on rue d’Antibes.
Rubbing Elbows. Speaking of rich people, there was one thing about the guests at the Carlton that I couldn’t help but notice. The guests were of varied nationalities, but all were quietly yet stylishly dressed; all were soft-spoken (confident that the rest of the world would listen) and all moved without haste (confident that the rest of the world would wait). Not a single cellphone was in sight. There was a conspicuous absence of Louis Vuitton bags. In brief, everyone looked Seriously-Well-to-Do-and-Used-To-It. This made the hotel experience perfect, though when I think about it, my own presence may have dragged down the hotel-wide average a bit. Okay, a bit more.
From Cannes, after some detours I eventually made it to Nice, which is everything Cannes wasn’t — full of traffic, shops and restaurants that were actually open, and people. To put it in a nutshell, Cannes is a movie set, while Nice is real life. Both are good.
(To be continued in Part 2)
