Cannes

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Although the alarm is set for 4.00, I am up at 3.30. Realising that I am too excited to go back to sleep, I pull myself out of bed. It is dark and raining. Oh, joy. I turn on Sky News (the BBC, bless them, does not see the need to do international weather). The weather report finally comes on. The perky, blond announcer tells me that although England is doomed to be raining and cold for the foreseeable future, it is “hot and sunny” on the Riviera. OH, JOY!

Now, usually when I have flights this early, I take a cab to Heathrow. Because I want my money to last as long as possible (I am really beginning to enjoy this not working for a living thing!), I decided to see what the tube and the Heathrow Express are like that early in the morning. I was on the first tube of the day for the first time in my life. What amazed me where how many people were on it. I couldn’t figure out where everyone was going at the time of the morning. Paddington? Shut up tight - no chance for a coffee. So, I arrived at Heathrow at 6.00 in the morning without having had my first shot of caffeine. Not a great start, but I was able to get a good coffee at the lounge in Heathrow, so all was right again.

Very often, people ask me why I live in London. This morning was the perfect example. I left home in the cold and the wet and, an hour and a half later, I was on the Riviera. The sun was shining; my fleece was off and everyone around me was speaking French. It’s one of scores of other worlds that is directly on my doorstep.

But, this time, this world involved hiring a car. I had managed to work myself up into a complete lather about driving again. It is so odd. I have been driving for thirty years, but since I’ve moved to London, I NEVER drive. One of my recurring anxiety dreams is that I am driving and I can’t get the brakes to work. But, to get around the south of France one must have a car, so needs must.

I looked at my car with a fair amount of trepidation. They didn’t have the VW Golf I had ordered, so they upgraded me to a Mercedes. At least I will look like I belong when I pull up to the hotels. Getting behind the wheel, I took a deep breath and turned on the ignition. God was smiling - the time was only 11.30 and the temperature was 26. It was all going to be fine.

And it was. I got on the A8 and headed west from Nice to Cannes. I quickly got back into the groove of driving a car and it wasn’t long before I was actually enjoying the feeling of tooling down a highway at a fair clip. Things got a bit dicey when I got into town. The traffic is bad, so a lot of people ride scooters. All fine and good except that the Mercedes beeps when someone gets too close. The first time it happened, I literally jumped. Weaving through the traffic, I arrived at my hotel for the evening, the Carlton.

The Carlton is one of the great hotels of all time. Set right on the sea, it is a huge grande dame of a place that had been around forever. It was the setting for “To Catch a Thief” and “French Kiss”. It is where Grace Kelly met Prince Rainier. It is where Princess Diana stayed the night before she boarded Dodi’s yacht for the first time. The entire seventh floor is made up of suites that, during the film festival, are the most prized rooms in town. In fact, they don’t publish their rates for that week. I guess if you have to ask…. My room was not quite as grand. To afford this place, I am in a tiny room that overlooks the rubbish bins. No matter, if it’s good enough for Hitchcock, it’s good enough for me.

Dropping off my bags, and changing into proper summer clothes, I decided to go for a wander around town. The first thing that struck me is the sheer number of beautiful people walking around. Chic, sophisticated and hip, they saunter around town. But, none of them is smiling. It’s truly odd. I made a game of it, but couldn’t find one who looked happy. After a while, I decided that if I had a choice between being one of the beautiful people or me, with my innate joie de vivre, I’d choose the latter. Made me feel much less self-conscious in my little skirt and tennis shirt.

I had done my research and had been bummed to discover that Cannes does not have a bus tour. What it does have, and what I stumbled upon early, is a train tour. For 10 euros, I could do the “Grand Tour” of the town. Yippee! Parted with my cash and jumped on. First Ugly American comment of the day. Now, I really don’t think it is all that difficult to learn four or five basic words (I always learn please, thank you, hello and goodbye). The train driver came up to a woman sitting behind me and said “Bonjour Madame”. “Whatever,” says she. “One ticket for the Grand Tour.” I wanted to fade into my seat.

Recovering from that shock, I sat back and enjoyed my hour drive around the town. What a lovely place, very French and filled with small streets teaming with flowers. The difference between the huge hotels on the promenade and the houses in the old town was quite something to see. Made me wonder what these people think during that famous week in May. My guess? A lot of them leave town.

The highlights were the Pavilion Theatre, where the famous red carpet is always out. The second was Notre Dame d’Esperance that sits right on the top of a hill. The views back over the bay were stunning and the church itself was beautiful.

By the time we returned, I was hot and sticky. I walked back to the hotel, changed yet again, and made my way to the beach. Now, one of the reasons to stay in a hotel like this is that one has access to a beach. All fine and good until I realised that I was expected to pay 30 euros for the pleasure! Too lazy to walk down to the public beach, I signed my life away and was given my own lounger and umbrella. A bottle of Evian was 8 euros, but at least it comes in a silver ice bucket with a huge glass of ice. Deciding to pretend that this was a natural part of my life, I sat back and enjoyed the sunshine. But, finally, the sea was calling. Salt water is one of my favourite things and I bounded in. Now, I am getting older because the water felt cold to me, but it was refreshing and I stayed in for a long time. The only problem with the Med - no waves to play in. Also, my skin has been really bad for a long time. If you’ve ever felt salt in an open wound, you get the sense. Considering that half my body is an open wound these days, I was stinging. I persevered, as nothing is better to clear this horror up than salt water and sun.

After seawater, the best feeling in the world is the shower one takes after being on the beach. Washing off the salt and sand is the cleanest feeling I can have. Luxuriating in a long shower, I changed (again!) into my standard, nothing will wrinkle this, black dress and made my way down to the Bar des Celebrites in the hotel. According to the Lonely Planet, one is “guaranteed” to see someone famous. Perhaps it’s because I don’t read “Paris Match”, “Hello” or “People”, but I did not recognise anyone. Very good martini, however.

The one thing that every guidebook I consulted said was a must do was dinner at Le Moulin de Mougins. Mougins is a small village about five miles north of Cannes and this restaurant almost always makes the list of the best in the world. I completely agree. First of all, the setting is bucolic. An old mill perched on a hillside, the water runs through and the old millstone is the centrepiece of the room. Stunning.

The food? Perfect. One could have a fifteen course tasting menu, but I thought that was bit much, so I passed. I asked the waiter to bring me the dishes he thought were the best on the menu. I started with a “pizza” of cubes of tomato, ham and anchovies that may be the single best thing I have ever had to eat. I could have made a meal of that. I followed it with langoustines covered with ham and guacamole that, although it sounds a bit weird, was out of this world. Finally, sweetbreads with foie gras. Delicious, but it put me over the edge. Way too rich for me.

In fact, that last dish so completely killed me that I couldn’t eat any cheese or finish my bottle of wine - in France! I did, however, indulge in some great French coffee and little nibbles of dessert.

The best part of the meal was the service. I have been to many great restaurants on my own and been treated like a pariah. Here, however, I was shown to one of the best tables in the house and was dealt with as an adult. The waiters took very good care of me; the sommelier recommended a great wine without breaking the bank and we all had a great time conversing in a mixture of French, English and Italian. Everyone here speaks Italian, which surprised me until I remembered that Italy is only a shout away. Mougins does not get a tick. I am going back, next time to stay at the inn and to indulge in the tasting menu.

A taxi ride back to the hotel that cost me 50 euros. I looked at the driver and smiled. I often wonder if they think we don’t know that they are cheating us, but I always take a very sanguine approach to the experience. I figure that first of all they may need the money more than I and that, if they don’t, karma will get them in the end.

I wandered into another bar of the hotel for a nightcap, but common sense prevailed. I knew I wanted to be up early, so I went up to the room, spent about three minutes writing and decided that the early start and the rich food had won. Climbed into the cool, high threadcount sheets and was asleep within seconds.

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Photos

Carlton Hotel
Look at that blue sky!

Beach
This is the beach outside the Carlton.

Beach
This is the public beach. Cannes, unlike Nice, has sand beaches.

Pavilion Theatre
Not the most beautiful building in the world.

Pavilion Theatre
The red carpet.

Pavilion Theatre
Handprints in the pavement, like Hollywood. This was my favourite set.

Train Ride
This is the train that carried me around town.

Old Town
Note the difference between this and the hotel!

Old Town
Murals like this are everywhere.

Old Town
The oldest street in Cannes.

Notre Dame d'Esperance
The lady in question.

Notre Dame d'Esperance
The interior.

Comments

[Michael]

Nice account
I must say that I never had the luck to stay at the Carlton! M http://www.cannes-or-bust.com/