Une famille francaise

They are a kind and generous family, no doubt about that. This fabulously stylish woman, her gentle, guitar-playing husband, and their 30-something live-at-home son, all welcomed me into their home and their life without a moment’s pause. I arrived into town, placed a call to these otherwise strangers - friends of a friend - and without hesitation they invited me to dine with them. How could I refuse?! I was looking forward to visiting a French home, and to having a substantial opportunity to interact and attempt communication with locals.

I was asked to come over at 7:30 pm. The son would meet me at 7:15 on La Croisette, in front of Hotel Martinez, to accompany me the short walk to their home.

Eagerly I showered, dressed, and began to look forward to an evening among adults. I left home with plenty of time for a leisurely walk down to the sea, stopping along the way to buy a cake marbre at the local patisserie for my hosts (not yet knowing we would be dining out). I was surprised to see a large number of locals and tourists out at the bars, cocktails and beers flowing. I took mental note of these places, vowing that I would motivate to get out into the social scene at least a few times while here in Cannes.

At 6:55 my phone rang. The son. Where am I, he asked? He was already there in front of the hotel, waiting for me.

Did I misunderstand??

“J’arrive en 5 minutes!”, I told him, panicking. I picked up my pace and began to move quickly, a New Yorker hitting the Cannes pavement in high-heeled boots. 10 minutes later he sent me a text message. Still waiting. Yes, I know! I began to walk faster, and by the time I arrived and found him standing in front of the hotel, I was exhausting and panting for breath. I would have been right on time had we stuck to our plan of 7:15...

Anyway, a quick bonsoir and salut, cheek kisses exchanged, he turned his back, indicating for me to follow, and was off to the races. Man, could this guy MOVE. His pace was Olympic-worthy. He walked like he meant it: purposeful, gaze fixed straight ahead, spine erect and tall as he galloped forward, one leg floating out of the other as he glided along, mind firmly settled on the place where he intended to land. His final destination was known and desired, and he wanted to get there NOW. I can certainly walk fast but I struggled to keep pace, and he remained at least 5 feet ahead of me at all times. I raced along as fast as I could, feeling as though my screaming hip joints would rip into two at any moment, tearing away my burning legs and leaving them rolling in the street behind me.

By the time we arrived at the apartment building, I was completely out of breath yet he was utterly calm. Sweat from the balmy night had begun to gather on my face. My head was spinning…. I had never seen anything like that before. I was in awe, and a little bit disturbed. And really grateful I did not agree to go running with him earlier that day.

Once inside, I was thrilled to meet his parents and get a peek at their gorgeous home, the living room flanked by a grand piano. They spoke little English but we did our best, speaking of French fashion and guitars and jazz music, of Cannes and of our mutual friends. Both mom and dad are fantastic people, and I felt honored to be accepted into their company that evening. Their son - The Walker - has a good handle on the English language, but rather than engage in our stilted conversation, he remained lurking in the corner, frozen on his feet with arms crossed over his chest, nervous and withdrawn, and nearly had a heart attack when his mother suggested he take the empty seat next to mine. Instead she filled the space herself, with glasses of champagne in hand.

The more we drank, the livelier the conversation became. Isn’t this always the case? I made continual effort to draw our otherwise unwilling onlooker into the conversation, relying on him to translate when needed (which was often). Periodic moments of awkward silence left me eager to get going to the restaurant, and I was grateful when we finally got up to leave.



We piled into their car and drove down La Croisette, the promenade aglow with lights from the street and the extravagant yachts dotting the harbor. In the backseat, the son scrunched his body up against the car door, keeping his head turned away from me and his gaze fixed out into the night. He seemed to move as far away from me as he possibly could, as though fearing my mere presence might make him evaporate into thin air…

(I remembered to put on deodorant, didn’t I?)

Finally we arrived, to the one place that is otherwise known as My Worst Nightmare: a casino.

Why? Of all places in Cannes, why did we go to a restaurant in the middle of a casino? There must be a good reason, one I will never quite know. We made our way to an unattractive table near the bar, and there we sat, surrounded by gambling elderly women wearing too much eyeliner, the sound of slots screeching and coins jangling throughout the room, the song “YMCA” playing over and over again on a machine just behind my head.

Now, I am not a food snob by any means, in fact I really don’t care what is on the menu. But I do love a good ambience. When it comes to restaurants and cafes, environment is everything to me. Obviously, the casino offered nothing in this regard. Yet the food was surprisingly decent, and the endless flow of champagne and wine certainly helped us all to relax - even my timid new friend seemed to offer a smile now and then - or so it appeared to me after having had my fair share to drink.

Alors… in the end it was a really nice evening, and I am thrilled to have met this family, son and all. Somehow, we managed to communicate and enjoy one another’s company, in spite of language barriers. And despite feeling disappointed by the choice of restaurant, I did manage to devour that tiramisu as though dessert was going out of style. Champagne, chocolate, and new friends. C’est la vie en France!

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